Hinc Illae Lacrimae
by Olive Hue
Summary: Amanda Crewe was just your average college student working on a book report one night at the library. That is, until she heard the distinct sound of a violin. Update: COMPLETE
1. Berceuse

//This is my first stab at a Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so go easy on me. As always, Holmes, Watson, and everyone and everything else Sir Doyle invented, do not belong to me.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 1: Berceuse  
  
  
"Deadlines suck," I muttered, propping my chin on my left hand as I tried to stay awake. Granted, a desk in the Portland, Maine public library wasn't the most comfortable place to rest, but seeing as how it was 1:45 in the morning, the prospect was beginning to interest me.  
  
But no, I had to get this book report done on time, or my English professor Mr. Self-Righteous Know-It-All Brockhurst would chop off my head, attach it to a pole, and stick it in his front yard to scare away little kids. Don't get me wrong; 'The Sign of Four' was one of the greatest stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever wrote, but even the most avid Sherlock Holmes fans know when to go to bed. Or maybe your truly, Amanda Crewe, is just an enormous wuss.  
  
Either excuse you want to go with, the hard, cold surface of the mahogany desk was all too inviting. Before I knew it, I was out like a light. They must put Nyquil in the water there or something.  
  
  
When I awoke, I recieved a shock. Not the same as shoving a fork in a toaster, but it probably gave me the same jolt. The 60-watt reading lamp on my desk was gone, replaced by an oil lantern. I lifted my head to see the same was true with all the tables. Come to think of it, the entire room was different. The bookshelves that were previously directly behind me were now on either side of where I was sitting. The windows, which were clear before, were now of yellow stained-glass. The ceiling was much higher, and even the carpet was different.  
  
I blinked. "Holy crap, I'm in a completely different library!"  
  
I was about to go find a librarian to inquire as to where in Heaven's name I was, and how I could have gotten there, when the sweetest sound filled my ears. It was a berceuse; a lullaby, and played on a violin by the most expert hands, I'm sure, in existence. I stood and left my desk, momentarily oblivious to the fact I was completely lost. Trying not to trip over my backpack, I walked out of the study area. I felt like Frankenstein's monster, staggering along, trying to find the source of the beautiful, almost haunting music.  
  
I turned a corner, and passing a row of bookshelves, I found what, or rather who, I was looking for. Sitting at a window, his long legs folded on the wide sill, was a tall, thin man dressed in clothes that definitely stood out from what everyone at the college wore. They sort of reminded me of what men wore when horses and stagecoaches were more common than Fords and Mitsubishis. Still, even in the dim light, I could tell he was pretty cute. He had black hair that was combed back from his forehead, high cheekbones, and keen blue-grey eyes that stared intently past a strong nose at the strings of his violin. Cute in an old-fashioned way, but cute nonetheless. Hey, I never said I was normal.  
  
Anyway, whoever this guy was, he played like a pro. As my eyes darted from his right hand, which pulled the bow flawlessly back and forth across the strings, to the elegant, tapered fingers of his left hand as they flew over the neck of the instrument, I was convinced I had never seen a more accomplished violinist. That was it, search was over-- I'd found my new hero. My apologies to all the other applicants.  
  
At last, when the piece regrettably ended, I found the courage to venture forward and compliment my new hero. Startled by the sudden movement in the darkened room, the man stood up and faced me, hastily setting his violin on the windowsill.  
  
"Do forgive me, miss," he said in a rich English accent. Swooon! I was always a sucker for accents. I really don't know what's wrong with me. "I was not aware there was anyone else here this late."  
  
"No, no, that's okay!" I blurted, instantly fearful I had hurt his feelings. "I don't mind at all. In fact, I've never heard more beautiful music. Are you self-taught?"  
  
He looked at me for a moment like I was some madwoman fresh out of the maison de sante, then slowly nodded. "Indeed. I was only practicing a piece I decided to write, since my roommate is averse to my random chords. I am terribly sorry if I disturbed you."  
  
I stared at him, my mouth wide open. "You wrote that?!" I exclaimed, rather tactlessly. "I mean... it's amazing!"  
  
"Thank you," he said quietly, either embarrassed or finding sudden interest in the floor.  
  
I held out my hand and gave him the most winning smile I could muster. "My name is Amanda Crewe."  
  
His grip was cool and firm as he replied, "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Crewe. I am Sherlock Holmes."  
  
Remember when my mouth dropped open? That was *nothing*. At this, I practically had to pick my jaw up off the floor. "What!?" I cried, bursting out laughing. "You've got to be kidding me! This must be one of those reenactments or whatever they're called. Still, the costume is very good. Is there a group of people you're with who dress like Sherlock Holmes, or is it just you?"  
  
"My dear young lady," he said, smiling in amusement, "I frankly haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about, but if there were any other men in London by the name of Sherlock Holmes, let me assure you, I would be the first to know."  
  
I closed my eyes. Lord, why did *this* one have to be a nutcase? "Haha. Look, 'Holmes', I don't know what loony bin you escaped from, but we're in Portland. You know, Portland, Maine? It's that whimsical land north-east of New York. Maybe you've heard of it?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Crewe, it so happens I *have* heard of Maine," he said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "And I do not appreciate my sanity being questioned, particularly by a woman wearing such... singular clothing."  
  
I looked down at my clothes. Light blue tanktop, khaki skirt, black nylons, tall black boots. What was wrong with what I was wearing? If anything, I should have been interrogating Mr. 221B Baker Street over there.  
  
"Listen, pal," I snapped, pointing a finger at this poor, insane musical prodigy's nose, "I don't like being insulted any more than the next girl. But let's get a few things straight: There's nothing wrong with my clothes, which is more than I can say for some people, we're not in England or the nineteenth century, and you are most definitely *not* Sherlock Holmes."  
  
The violinist stared at my finger with disinterest. "Very well," he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He turned around, and unhooking the latch on the stained-glass windows, pushed forcefully on either side, swinging them wide open.  
  
I leaned against a bookshelf, unable to believe what I was looking at. A cold, foggy night lay outside, and through that fog I could see a small, black hansom being pulled along the cobblestone street by a Clydesdale horse, its reins held by a man in a top hat. Other people were walking outside, bundled in clothes strikingly similar to those my once-thought crazy acquaintance was wearing. But now I wasn't so doubtful of the man's sanity. Not a single Subaru Outback or Old Navy in sight. God help me, I was in London.  
  
Suddenly feeling lightheaded(I have *no* idea why), my knees gave out. I'm not usually such a... well, *girl*, but given the circumstances, I'm sure anyone else would have collapsed, too. A blur of black and grey overtook me, and suddenly I was enveloped in a pair of sturdy arms, my head cradled against a chest that wasn't as emaciated as I would've thought. I looked up into two sharp, observant eyes, and I found myself smiling for no reason.  
  
The last thing I remember saying before I passed out was, "You really *are* Sherlock Holmes."  
  
  
  
//I KNOOOW, everyone else writes this type of thing. So sue me. NO, WAIT, DON'T! Anyway, you like it? Interested in the least? Then by all means, leave a review! More chapters to come if I get enough positive response.// 


	2. Dies Faustus

//Yay, reviews! I love you peeps! Okay, here's the next chapter. Typical disclaimer must proceed: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other element of Sir Doyle's stories. Now then!//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 2: Dies Faustus  
  
  
Slowly, my vision cleared, and I was aware that I was in yet another unfamiliar room. I was lying on a maroon sofa, and a crackling fireplace nearby warmed my feet, which instantly made me wonder where my boots went. I raised my head and found the last eyes I had seen before I had passed out were once again locked intently on me. Sherlock Holmes sat in a large armchair across the room, regarding me with unhidden curiosity. Looking up at the mantle above the hearth, I noticed an old, much-used clay pipe.  
  
Gee, I thought wryly, I wonder whose house this could possibly be.  
  
I dragged myself to a sitting position and smoothed the wrinkles out of my skirt. "Um, hi," I said quietly, feeling Holmes's blue-grey gaze burning into me even as I looked down at my stocking-feet.  
  
"I trust you are feeling better, Miss Crewe?" he asked, leaving his chair to sit beside me on the couch in an uncharacteristically forward gesture. Boy, did I feel uncomfortable.  
  
"Yes, I am," I replied, trying to be polite. After all, the man had taken me home with him after I had fainted in front of him. Any guy in my time would have left me there on the floor. "Thank you for asking." I hesitated, then looked up at him. "I'm... sorry for what I said earlier, Mr. Holmes. It was rude of me to insult you like that."  
  
"Quite all right, madam," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Most people tend to deal with situations such as yours in a similar fashion. There is no need to apologize."  
  
I shook my head. "Yes, there is. I'm not normally such a jerk, but I mean, how would you react if you suddenly found yourself in a whole different world?" I clenched my fists in confusion. "How did I even get here?!"  
  
"I carried you," he said bluntly, observing my, what he would call, "singular" behavior.  
  
"That's not what I mean!" I cried, frustrated beyond belief. "I mean, how did I get here, in the nineteenth century? God, what year is it?"  
  
"1884."  
  
"18-freakin'-84!" I repeated, slightly embellishing upon his response. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't belong in this time period, my *dear* Holmes."  
  
His head tilted slightly, he arched a sable eyebrow. "Pray elaborate on your statement."  
  
"You may find this a little weird; then again, you may not, considering all the cases you've worked. But I'm from the year 2002. And I was trying to finish a book report for my college English class, when to my indescribable surprise, I met *you*." I suddenly laughed at the absurdity. "You, Sherlock Holmes, the very person I was reading about. See, in my time, you and your friend Dr. John Watson are very famous people. Though the majority of the world believes you are fictional characters created by a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."  
  
Holmes listened with growing astonishment; something I don't recall him having that much in Watson's narratives.  
  
"So yeah, you can imagine my shock when I found out you were a real person, and that I had woken from my nap a hundred and eighteen years *before* I had fallen asleep."  
  
He leaned back in the sofa, tenting his fingers. "Yours is a particularly fascinating case, Miss Crewe," he commented, calm as could be. "I daresay Watson will be most interested in hearing about this curious business."  
  
Case, I thought irritably. That's all this insane predicament is, another one of your cases? "Oh, right, I almost forgot about Watson. Where is the ol' bean right now?"  
  
"He is out calling on one of his patients," said Holmes, closing his eyes nonchalantly. "He will be back momentarily."  
  
How I had gotten in this time period and what I was going to do were nowhere near as depressing as the fact that I would never see my family or friends again. I had never felt so alone. I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Oh, this was just perfect. I was going to start bawling my eyes out in front of Sherlock Holmes. Boy, this was just my lucky day!  
  
As my shoulders shook with sobs, I heard Holmes's soothing voice next to my ear. "Come now, dear," he said, offering me a handkerchief. "Dry your eyes. I promise I will try to resolve this dillemma using any means possible."  
  
Feeling his breath against my neck sent sweet little shivers down my spine, which probably weren't appropriate for that moment, but they made me feel better, along with his reassuring words. Heheh, okay, enough of my pathetic infatuation with the opposite sex. I took the proffered handkerchief and blotted my eyes, giving Holmes a watery smile. "Thanks. Whoooops, I mean, thank you." Amused by the glance he gave me, I sat up straight. "So, Holmesy, my bestest pal, what do we do now?"  
  
"I am afraid I don't follow you."  
  
"Till Watson gets back, I mean." I thought for a second. "Hey, I know! You're Sherlock Holmes, right?"  
  
He rolled his eyes in irritation. "Your powers of observation are impressive."  
  
"Just thought I'd double-check," I said, grinning. "So if indeed you are who you claim to be," I continued, ignoring his glare, "then you can tell who a person is, along with their profession, just by looking at them. So..." I stood up in front of him, turning around once. "Tell me all about me!"  
  
Holmes crossed his ankles, staring at me intently. I tried not to feel self-conscious as his keen blue gaze roved over me, taking in every detail. Finally he nodded in satisfaction. "I would say you are twenty-three years old, 1.6 metres in height, roughly fifty-five kilograms, with a dominant right hand. Obviously American, as made clear by your accent and mannerisms. Your work involves food preparation; most likely serving or catering." I was a waitress part-time, so I guess he was right. "You do a bit of drawing, though it looks to me you have been writing a great deal as of late. You enjoy swimming, for reasons unknown to me, if you indeed live in such a cold place as Maine. You wear rather tall shoes which affect your posture some, you own a short-haired dog, and you require reading glasses."  
  
"Oh, please, Holmes!" I exclaimed, my hands on my hips. I wasn't about to let him get off so easily. "You can do better than that! Come on, tell me something about me even I don't know!"  
  
Chewing his lip in thought, he declared, "You are an extremely difficult woman."  
  
I laughed. "Nice try, but I knew that one, too. And I'm not going to stop pestering you until you hit me with a really shocking one!"  
  
"Very well, if you insist." Holmes stood up and walked in a slow, lazy circle around me, looking me up and down. I would have slapped him across his face had I not known that the gears were turning in that brilliant mind, trying to come to some conclusion about me that would knock my socks off. Finally he ceased his sharklike circling and faced me with a cocky smile. "Your dog is a basset hound named Fenton."  
  
My eyes widened, and I backed away from him, making an 'X' with my fingers. "Demon! Witch! Burn at the stake!"  
  
"I must confess, Miss Crewe," he said, gesturing casually toward my backpack which sat leaning against to the sofa, "I did have a peep at your rather unique knapsack. I learned a great deal about you before you even regained consciousness."  
  
"What? How dare you!" I cried indignantly. "One of the biggest crimes a man can commit is rifling through a woman's purse!" Purse, backpack, same diff. "You know, you're destroying a lot of illusions," I said, collapsing in a heap in Holmes's nearby basket chair. "Hey, if you knew about Fenton before I woke up, then what was all that circling for?"  
  
"Mostly for show," he said, walking to the mantle and lighting his pipe. Returning to his armchair, he leaned back, blowing pale blue smoke rings. "But also to admire your figure. One of the other things I deduced, which I must venture to say, is more obvious, was that you are exceptionally lovely."  
  
I blushed, surprised by his blunt confession. As I tried to smother a smile, I asked, "You don't talk to a lot of women, do you, Holmes?"  
  
"Not any more than necessary," he replied, yawning.  
  
  
  
//Heheheh, good old Holmes and his ineptitude around the fairer sex. Anyway, I'm afraid I made this chapter exceeeeedingly cute, and if it made you barf, I'm sorry in advance. And in case you didn't notice, I fixed some of the errors in the first chapter which were caused by my dumbassitude. But concerning the whole library thing, it was just a library in London, not at a university, so it wouldn't be weird for Crewe to be in there. By the way, not to be all *needy*, which I am, but what do you think of Crewe? Is she funny, annoying, somewhat three-dimensional, stereotypical... What's your opinion of her? I'd really like to know. Yeah, anyway, please leave a review, and I'll continue if I get some positive feedback! ("Some" meaning "one", and "positive" meaning "any type of".)// 


	3. Tempus Fugit

//Ahhh, this is going pretty well, don't you think? As per the usual requirements, I do not own Holmes, Watson, or any other invention of Sir Doyle. And if I claimed to own Crewe, she would probably kill me.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 3: Tempus Fugit  
  
  
Dr. John Watson was probably the most gushy, sentimental man I had ever met. He was very sweet, he treated me with the utmost courtesy, and he even bought me a whole mess of clothes more appropriate to the time. But the things he said had to make me wonder. Sure, I already knew that he was somewhat of a romantic from reading his narratives of Holmes's cases. Now that I knew him, "somewhat" was a gross understatement.  
  
It was Watson's idea that I should live with them in the Baker Street rooms, and Holmes grudgingly accepted, only after being threatened by Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what the good doctor thought he had accomplished by getting me to stay; I had nowhere else to go in the first place. It was also his idea to fix up Holmes's study as a room for me. Of course, The Great Detective™ would have *none* of that.  
  
"Absolutely out of the question," he announced, calmly reading the agony columns at the breakfast table in his dressing-gown. Watching him gave me the sudden urge to plant a tassled fez on his head. Lucky for him I didn't have one, heh heh.  
  
"Now, now, Holmes," Watson gently insisted. "Poor Miss Crewe has not a single place to lay her head in this house, unless it would not bear upon your conscience forcing her to sleep in the sitting-room. The only option left is your study."  
  
"Nonsense, Watson. She can sleep in the hallway," replied Holmes, giving me a sweet smile over the pages of his newspaper.  
  
I pretended to look offended. "Holmes, you big meanie! And I thought men were polite in the nineteenth century." I reached into my backpack and pulled out a package of Doublemint, knowing the detective's weakness for anything habit-forming. "If you let me have your study, I'll give you a piece of gum."  
  
He studied the package with a raised eyebrow, then looked up at me. "What is it?"  
  
I unwrapped a stick and popped it into my mouth. "Mmmmm, it's soooo good," I said, closing my eyes with rapture. "Sure you don't want any?"  
  
"You are trying to decieve me, Crewe."  
  
"No, I'm really not!" I handed a piece to Watson, winking. "Try it, doc. It's great, and it's a far better habit than smoking." I shot a sidelong glance at Holmes.  
  
As the doctor gave the gum an experimental chew, he broke out into a smile. "It is very strange, but I must say, delightful!"  
  
"Come on, Holmes," I said, batting my eyelashes. "I'll give you *two* pieces. How 'bout that?"  
  
I dared to meet those intense blue-grey eyes as they looked skeptically at me and my gum offering. Finally he reached out with a thin hand and snatched the sticks from my fingers. Propping his feet carelessly on the table, he raised the newspaper once more. "Jezebel."  
  
  
Some days, the phrase "Time flies when you're having fun" was brought to my mind as I hung out in the Baker Street rooms. Though I was more inclined to believe that "Time goes by achingly slow when you're stuck inside with nothing to do" suited my situation much better. All day long while Watson was gone making house calls to his patients and Holmes was out doing one crazy thing of another involving one of his cases, I was left at the apartment, looking out the window at the constant rain and brooding over how much the 1800's sucked.  
  
It was one of these instances that prompted Watson to suggest that we all go for a walk and take advantage of an unseasonably warm day. Holmes claimed to have a headache, but Watson and I could both see through this pretense.  
  
"Just this once, Holmes, please?" I begged, kneeling in front of him as he sat in his armchair. "I've been stuck inside this house for two weeks! Can't you just abandon your antisocial nature for once and come take a walk with me-- I mean, *us*?"  
  
Watson's eyebrows shot up at this. Oh great, I thought, instantly regretting my idiocy. Watson's going to think something sickeningly romantic now, all because of a slip of the tongue.  
  
Holmes stood up, sighing. "Very well, for your sake. I suppose I shouldn't like to feel responsible for causing your cabin fever."  
  
I grinned and hugged his arm, for some reason thankful for his company. After all, I didn't want to be left alone with Watson to be interrogated. Speaking of Watson, I looked over at him to see him smiling in amusement. I quickly pulled away from Holmes, mentally kicking myself. Whoooops.  
  
I frolicked happily toward the door and swung it open. I was wearing a light grey dress that made me feel like some frumpy governess, but I didn't care. I finally got to go outside!  
  
And I was actually looking forward to the walk until Watson pulled a, let's just say, not nice prank on me.  
  
"Oh dear, oh dear!" he exclaimed, looking up at the clock on the mantle. "I forgot entirely!"  
  
I looked at him warily. "What did you forget, Doc?" Or should I say, what are you scheming?  
  
"I had an appointment with a Mr. Oliver Blackburn," he said, shaking his head sadly. "The poor man has a frightful case of laryngitis. I am afraid I will not be able to join you for your walk."  
  
"Oh, how *terribly* inconvenient," I remarked, folding my arms over my chest. As God as my witness, I was going to strangle him.  
  
"Yes, quite." Holmes followed me to the door and offered me his arm. "A pity you cannot accompany us." He turned to me. "Shall we, Crewe?"  
  
I linked my arm in his, looking past him to stick my tongue out at Watson. "Yes, we shall."  
  
  
"So, Holmes, what has been your most challenging case?" I asked, attempting to make conversation as we walked through the streets of London. The sun felt warm on my face, and I felt happier than I had ever felt since I had ended up in this bizarre mess. I was thankful for the little excursion, even if I *was* spending it with Holmes.  
  
He looked up at the sky, squinting his bright eyes. I studied his strong profile, wondering why none of the drawings of Sherlock Holmes were very flattering. The man was, in my opinion, which of course went without question, quite handsome. "I suppose all my cases have been formidable," he replied thoughtfully. "Though the adventure of the Speckled Band proved quite taxing on my physical and mental powers."  
  
I nodded. "How is Miss Stoner doing these days? Or should I say, Mrs. Armitage?"  
  
Holmes stopped dead in his tracks. "Why, Crewe, however did you know that?"  
  
"You're forgetting, dear Holmes, that I have the benefit of knowing some fifty or so narratives written by Watson," I said, grinning. "And I know more about you than even you do."  
  
"Is that so?" he asked, regarding me skeptically. As we resumed walking, he said, "Let's have it then."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Out with it, Crewe. I believe it is your turn. Tell me, as you say, 'all about me'."  
  
I smiled fiendishly. This was going to be sweet. "All right, where to begin? For one, you're not overly fond of philosophy or politics, and you know practically zilch about astronomy. For all you care, the earth could revolve around a giant India-rubber ball. You're very interested in chemistry, and you've been known to experiment with your acetones for hours on end. Hmm, what else?" I tapped my finger on my chin, watching as his eyes grew wider. "Your knowledge of sensational literature and crime records is impressive, along with your talent for the violin. And speaking of music, you like German better than French or Italian.  
  
"You're also a skilled boxer and swordsman, and as Watson would say, a 'self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco'. You really should quit that, Holmes. Drugs are one of the biggest killers in my time." I cracked my knuckles lazily. "There's really nothing impressive about how much I know. Watson is the one I should be thanking."  
  
"Well, Crewe, you certainly have my number," said Holmes, laughing. "Though you have a distinct advantage over my deductive reasoning, and I have some scruples about a woman knowing my entire life story, I must congratulate you."  
  
"Oh yeah, that's another thing," I said, reminded of an additional facet of the detective's Bohemian nature. "Watson seems to think that you don't like women... though, of course, he'd never tell you. And I have to say, I'm inclined to believe that you think we're inferior."  
  
"Really now?" Holmes stopped once again to look at me in his trademark introspective fashion. "And what would lead you to believe that?"  
  
I punched him in the arm playfully. "Well, I don't want to let a bachelor know his faults, but the only girl you seem to tolerate talking to is standing right in front of you. Still, I can see why. I mean, can you think of a better conversational companion?"   
  
Holmes pursed his lips in exasperation, but I'm pretty sure I saw some mirth in those attentive eyes. We continued walking for a few blocks, and he gestured toward a humble little restaurant on the corner. "Tell me, Crewe, when was the last time you enjoyed a good luncheon? This particular business is known for its excellent tea and sandwiches."  
  
I put on a look of incredulity. "Why, Sherlock Holmes! Forsaking your usual cold roast beef? This is an unprecidented event! How could I possibly pass you up?"  
  
"I am quite sure you will find," he remarked, holding the door open for me, "that your roommate is not as predictable as you might guess."  
  
  
  
//Eeheehee, more pointless cuteness, I know. I just wanted to get Crewe sitchee-ated in her new surroundings. And how could I not introduce Watson in this chapter? Oh, by the way, I have no idea whether Holmes has a study or not. If he doesn't, go ahead and tell me, and I'll change it. Anywho, I promise, the actual mystery is coming up. No, seriously. It is. So leave a review! Please?// 


	4. Bête Noire

//Fourth chapter already? Wow, I'm surprised it's gotten this far! Thank you for your interest and support. (Some of you, anyway. *nervous smile*) As always, nothing belongs to me, so on with the story!//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 4: Bête Noire  
  
  
Forget it. Whatever asinine crush I might have had on Holmes completely evaporated. He was a presumptuous little *snot*. Now I understood why he didn't have a girlfriend-- he was too much in love with himself! As I sat there in the restaurant, bored stiff as he prattled on about how ingenious he was, I was reminded of the doctor's opinion of him when he first came to live with him. Even Watson had thought he was conceited. How did the poor man manage to share an apartment with this guy? And more importantly, how was *I* going to pull it off without losing my mind?!  
  
"...For deduction is a rather delicate science," he was saying, as I looked out the window at the passing coaches. "It is absolutely imperative, Crewe, that one must not miss the clues evident on a man's gloves or trousers, which may be the largest factor in determining who the man is and what he is scheming. Fortunately, I have no doubt that nothing of importance could get past me, and I am quite--"  
  
"Say, Holmes," I interrupted, maybe a little loudly, "I think it's great and all that you feel comfortable talking to me about your cases, but could we discuss something else? The weather, music..." I hid my mouth with my teacup and muttered, "the last time you had a date..."  
  
"Ah." Holmes smiled smugly. "I see. Really, Crewe, I must say I am surprised. You say that women in your era can carry an intelligent conversation, and yet you would do anything to steer it into a less intellectual one. How very strange."  
  
My mouth dropped open. If I didn't know better, I'd say that was an insult. Holmes would do well to know that Amanda Crewe does *not* take kindly to insults. "Excuse me? Did I just hear you right? Are you saying I'm not intelligent?"  
  
"You misunderstood me," he replied, sipping his tea. "I was simply suggesting that you might be more comfortable conversing with women of your own... caliber."  
  
"Oh, really?" I asked, beginning to know what true annoyance was. "And you don't think putting it *that* way insults my intelligence? You know, for a genius, you sure are stupid!"  
  
Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Why, you insolent little hot-head!"  
  
"Insolent, am I?" I stood up, throwing my napkin on my plate angrily. "I'm sure you would know about being insolent, you arrogant... self-absorbed... *woman-hater*!!" Slamming my chair loudly against the table legs, I stomped out of the restaurant, ignoring the surprised glances of the other patrons. To the best of my recollection, there was a park somewhere nearby. I started off in that direction, trying to control my fury.  
  
The nerve of that guy! I thought, clenching my fists. I am not a hot-head! ...Well, maybe I am, but he has no right to point that out!  
  
Once I reached the park, I collapsed into a bench and watched the startled pigeons as they fluttered off. Even if Holmes hadn't insulted me, he was just asking for it; the way he talked about himself all the time. He deserved every word I had hurled at him. ...Except for when I called him stupid, because he really wasn't. And I suppose he wasn't actually a woman-hater. He was usually very respectful to them....  
  
Whoooops.  
  
"Oh, jeez," I said, kicking up dirt with my shoe. "You picked a great time to start feeling bad, Crewe."  
  
Speaking of feeling bad, I certainly was, and in more ways than one. I had no idea why, but it felt like there were little piranhas swimming around inside me, eating away at my stomach lining. I doubled over, gritting my teeth. God, what did I eat? I had ordered everything Holmes had: tea, a turkey sandwich, and some bread with honey. Nothing to get the acids churning, right? With a mean little smile, I hoped the good detective was suffering as much as I was.  
  
I stood up and headed back to Baker Street, feeling increasingly dizzy. My vision started to blur, and it was all I could do to make out the street signs. I felt unbearably cold as well, but I could feel beads of sweat forming on my face as I struggled to stay on my feet. My limbs felt like lead, and it was a chore even to inhale. Finally with an effort I recognized my current lodgings and lurched up the stairs, fumbling with the doorknob. Once inside, I found I could no longer keep my balance and toppled to the floor.  
  
"Crewe!" a voice cried, which I acknowledged to be Holmes. Nooo, cruel Fate! Why!? Hurried footsteps came toward me, and I felt a tentative hand on my sweat-slicked brow. "Gracious, girl, you have a fever!"  
  
"No, you think?" I managed to reply weakly, glaring at the indistinct shape kneeling next to me. I felt Holmes scoop me up in his arms, and the world spun crazily as he started running. Everything bounced violently, and I clung to his neck to keep from slipping. Finally he released me with an insulting abruptness, and I was aware that I was lying on a bed; the bed I had been given to sleep on in Holmes's study.  
  
Now that I wasn't exerting myself, my vision began to clear, and I could finally make out Holmes's face. His keen bluish grey eyes were filled with concern and... something else. Was it fear? Funny... I never recalled Holmes being afraid that much. He patted my face uncertainly. "Crewe, can you hear me? Answer me!"  
  
I reached up and touched his cheek. It felt so warm compared to my chilled skin. Thank God it was real. He took hold of my hand quickly and brought it back down to my side, and I frowned. There I was, on my death bed, for all I knew, and Holmes was shunning any sort of human contact. Jeez, how much more of a glacier could he get? "I'm sorry," I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.  
  
His dark eyebrows drew together. "For what?"  
  
"You don't remember?" I asked, smiling. "Man, you're as forgetful as you are arrogant."  
  
He shook his head. "I should be the one apologizing," he said softly. "I had no right to doubt your intelligence, and certainly no right to insult you as I did."  
  
My eyes started to slip shut, but he shook me roughly. Well, at least he was bold enough to rattle my brains around. "Damnation, girl!" he cried, a desperate tone in his voice. "If you fall asleep, you might not wake up!"  
  
"Holmes..."  
  
He hesitated for a moment, then finally leaned a fraction closer to me. What a guy. "Yes?"  
  
"Am I..." I choked, feeling hot tears begin to run down my cheeks. "Am I going to die?"  
  
Holmes bit his lip, shaking his head fiercely. "No, of course not," he whispered. "Don't be silly, Crewe. When Watson returns, he shall examine you, and determine the cause of your illness. Then we will treat it accordingly, and before you know it, you will be your old, unpredictable self again."  
  
Somehow I found the strength to laugh. "You seem so sure of that," I said, unsettled as I looked into his uncharacteristically worried face.  
  
"Only because I am," he said with the confidence of a man lost in a blizzard without a compass. Suddenly he lifted his hand and touched my lips with the tips of his fingers. Bringing them close to his nose, he began to sniff them, a frown on his features.  
  
I blinked at him, alarmed. "Holmes, what are you doing? What's wrong?"  
  
"Crewe," he breathed, his eyes growing wide with shock. "You have been poisoned."  
  
  
  
//*dramatic music* And the mystery surfaces at last! Sorry this chapter was kind of short, but I felt it was a good place for a cliffhanger. *evil grin* To be honest, I'm kind of afraid to continue. I'm really glad some of you like my story, but I must say, I've never had this many, well, disheartening reviews for my other fanfics. Sure, I don't mind some constructive criticism, but I've looked at some reviews for other Holmes fics on ff.net, and I haven't seen as many that are so... picky as there are for mine. Frankly, I'm surprised I haven't been stoned to death already.  
  
So anyway, if that many people really dislike my story, just let me know, and I'll remove it. If not, I'll take that as a sign to continue. Either way, I'm just glad I got this far.// 


	5. Eureka

//Squeee, so many reviews for one chapter? Okay, ya got me! If you really want me to, I'll continue! Still, even if I had gotten only one review telling me to keep going, I would have written another chapter anyway. *dodges flying vegetables* I owe it to Crewe not to let her fade away as another stereotypical made-up character in a story I never finished.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 5: Eureka  
  
  
"Poisoned!?" exclaimed Watson, his eyes darting from me to Holmes, who was pacing restlessly back and forth across my "room". "Good heaven! This is most serious business!" Thank heavens he was gracious enough to provide me a bucket for... yeah... which I used, prompting Holmes and Watson to dutifully look away.  
  
"Serious and sinister," added Holmes, his thin hand stroking his chin in thought.  
  
Watson knelt beside the bed and pried one of my eyes wide open, then stared long and hard at my mouth. I found myself breathing hard, like I had been running a marathon. Lord, it was cold. Bringing his face close to mine, he nodded slowly, apparently wrestling with different hypotheses.  
  
"Are you experiencing loss of breath?" he finally asked.  
  
I rolled my eyes. "What does it look like?"  
  
"No need to get snippy," he said defensively, chastising me in a paternal way. "Now then, do you feel weak? Do your limbs feel heavier than normal?"  
  
"Yes and yes."  
  
"Nausea and disorientation, I suppose?"  
  
"Holmes, stop that pacing!" I shouted, causing the detective to stop in his tracks. "You're going to make me throw up again!"  
  
Watson smiled wryly. "I take that as a yes." He stood and turned to Holmes. "There is no doubt in my mind. The discoloration of the mouth, the breath smelling faintly of almonds... I have seen all these symptoms before. It was minor cyanide poisoning."  
  
"Just as I thought," Holmes murmured, more to himself than anyone. "No doubt it was dissolved in her tea. That would explain why I have none of her symptoms."  
  
"But why, is the question?" I said, holding my spinning head. "I've only been here a couple weeks. How could I even make any enemies?"  
  
"Was Miss Crewe getting too headstrong for you, Holmes?" asked Watson jokingly. Holmes shot him a glance which pretty much came across as the equivalent to 'I'll kill you if you even suggest such a thing'. Watson cleared his throat. "In any case, it is extremely good fortune that you stormed out of the restaurant when you did. Had you ingested any more tea..." He trailed off, but I knew precisely what he was implying.  
  
Holmes came forward and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Now, Crewe," he said, locking his piercing gaze on me. "I want you to close your eyes. Good. Now focus on the exact moment you were sitting in the restaurant."  
  
I obeyed, getting a mental image of my surroundings. My tea and sandwich in front of me, a window looking out on the street on my left, and Holmes across the table from me, whiling away the time with a lively discussion about the significance of boot laces. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
"Now," he continued, "It is imperative that you try to recall something for me. Concentrate on the people around you. What did they look like? Did they ever make eye contact with you? Please try to remember."  
  
"Okay, I'll try...." Crap, was I even paying attention to the other people? Not to my recollection, but I proceeded to reconstruct my surroundings the best I could. "Let's see... I remember a man and a woman sitting together in the corner. She was kinda chunky, and he was wearing a really ugly olive green waistcoat."  
  
I heard a soft laugh from Watson.  
  
I thought for a moment. "I'm pretty sure... yeah. There were three old women sitting near the couple." I opened my eyes and looked up at Holmes. "Right?"  
  
He nodded. "Pray continue."  
  
I closed my eyes again, thinking hard. "Oh yeah! There was this guy sitting by the window reading a newspaper."  
  
"Excellent!" the detective exclaimed, causing me to jump. "What did he look like?  
  
"Uhh," I said, screwing up my face, "He was skinny-- though not as skinny as you-- and he had dirty blonde hair and a faint moustache." I paused. "Come to think of it, he sort of looked like my cousin Jeff."  
  
"Was he doing anything besides reading the newspaper?"  
  
"He was... hmm." Yes, Crewe, what *was* he doing? You were too busy noting how cute it was how Holmes spun his spoon between his thumb and forefinger, weren't you? Then you directed your attention to the window to make it look like you weren't looking at him, and--  
  
"Oh my god," I whispered, opening my eyes.  
  
"Yes?" was Holmes's immediate response.  
  
"I... looked over at him when I was drinking my tea, and he smiled and raised his cup in a toast. I didn't really think anything of it when it happened..." I shook my head. "Whoooops. Man, I'm such a *moron*!"  
  
"Now now," he said, in his trademark comforting voice that he could turn on and off like a lightswitch, "You are certainly not to blame for this misfortune. You could not have possibly known what would come of an otherwise friendly glance." His black eyebrows drew together. "Though this does thicken the plot, I must say. You have not become acquainted with enough people, really, for anyone to develop a murderous intent. So little data..."  
  
As Holmes grew silent, I began to feel nauseous again, but not from the poison. I was practically the most agreeable person I knew! Well, at least, when I wanted to be. And I hadn't met hardly anyone since I had arrived inexplicably in this era and thus got into this horrible mess. Who would want to kill me? I was so far away from home....  
  
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight off the wave of nausea and depression. I guess Watson took this to mean I wanted rest or something. "Well, Miss Crewe, since you, er, disposed of most of the poison in your body, I believe it is safe to say you will live."  
  
Holmes nodded. "And that is a tremendous relief to me--" *Really? I'm flattered, Holmes!* "--for I will be needing your help in pointing out our culprit." *Oh. Well. Never mind then.*  
  
"Although," the doctor added with just a trace of worry in his voice. Great. "It would not be prudent of me as a physician to neglect one of my patients, for there is a considerable risk of a relapse. If I am not mistaken, there is an afghan in that armoire over there. Holmes, old boy, kindly retrieve it and cover my patient. We must keep her warm."  
  
Blinking once, Holmes took the blanket from the nearby wardrobe and draped it over me. Ooh, it was soft! As I fingered the edge of it to keep my mind off throwing up, Watson advised me to get some rest (which I highly doubted was going to happen) and left the room.  
  
As Holmes wished me goodnight and began to follow Watson out the door, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to thank him for everything. Remembered that I forgot... man, that sounds dumb. "Hey, Holmes?"  
  
He paused at the door. "Yes?"  
  
"Thank you," I said quietly.  
  
He nodded. "You are quite welcome." He must have thought I was talking about the whole blanket thing. All right...  
  
"Not just for this," I said, holding up the afghan, "I mean, for everything. For letting me stay here, which I'm sure doesn't bear too lightly on your conscience. For treating me like an actual person, not just some brainless woman who can't do anything for herself..." I know, I was starting to ramble. Let's get this wrapped up, dearie. "And for putting up with me. I know you don't like me, so I just wanted to thank you for tolerating me." There, I said it.  
  
...But the look on his face made me regret it.  
  
"Crewe," he said, for once looking truly offended, not just ticked off, "whatever made you think I did not like you?"  
  
You see what letting your mouth say whatever it feels like can get you into? "Well," I blurted awkwardly, "it's sort of obvious." Nooo, fool girl! Take it back, take it back! "No, what I meant was... Oh, come on, you *did* call me a hot-head, after all!"  
  
I winced, waiting for the explosion. To my surprise, it never came. Instead, Holmes smiled at me, a glint of impishness in his eyes. "And would that be before or after you called me stupid, Crewe?"  
  
Oh, he *had* to throw that in my face. I smiled sheepishly, my face burning with embarrassment.  
  
"The point is," he continued, pulling the velvet chair in the corner closer to the bed and sitting down, "I only treated you the way I did because I have never previously met a woman as... bold as you. Forgive me if it came off as dislike."  
  
I smiled, trying to keep my eyelids up. Oh, of course. Now that Holmes and I were actually beginning to be on good terms, I couldn't stay awake. "Don't think anything of it, Holmes, old boy," I replied, yawning. "I promise I won't call you a woman-hater ever again."  
  
"I would appreciate that," he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching luxuriantly. "Now do get some rest. I daresay I will be needing your assistance as soon as you are feeling up to it."  
  
I blinked, watching as he made himself more comfortable. "You're not leaving?"  
  
He smiled, amused. "Terribly sorry, Crewe, but as much as it would please you if I left, I must make sure there is no risk of another, shall I say, episode. Go on then; I will be here until you fall asleep."  
  
"But I, I don't think I'll even be able to," I protested, my cheeks becoming warm. The last thing I wanted was Sherlock Holmes to hear me snore.  
  
Holmes rose from his chair and left the room, and for a moment I thought he had gone for good. However, he returned after a short while, his violin in hand. He sat down in the plush armchair once more, raising the bow to the strings.  
  
"Holmes, please, you really don't have to--" I quickly fell silent as the first few notes of a sweet, lilting melody filled the room. Jeez, he sure knew how to get me to shut up.  
  
I lay in bed, enchanted, as the detective played the very lullaby that had first drawn me to him. After a few minutes I almost forgot about all the horrible events of the day, watching Holmes's graceful fingers and tranquil face. He made everything seem so easy; music, chemistry, "the science of deduction". I smiled, no longer resisting the urge to close my eyes.  
  
I wonder what my friends in the twenty-first century would say if they knew I had fallen head-over-heels for Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  
  
//When I was doing some research for this story on different poisons... Whoa, let me tell you. Crewe is lucky she threw most of it up. The more severe symptoms of cyanide poisoning are not pretty.  
  
Anyway, I'm glad so many people bugged me to keep going. And Hank, I know you weren't trying to be mean. In fact, I never thought you were. *hugs you* No hard feelings, mate!// 


	6. Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

//Chapter six already? My goodness! It's a good thing I actually know what the rest of the story is going to be about, because otherwise it would just be pointless rambling. Kind of like I'm doing right now. Anyway, thanks for the reviews,(so MANY!) and I hope you like the latest chapter.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 6: Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum  
  
  
It was relatively early when I awoke, so the sun had not yet risen to burn away the London fog. There was enough light, however, for me to see that Holmes had *not* left after I had fallen asleep, and was in fact sleeping quite soundly in the same armchair he had been sitting in the night before, his violin resting in his lap. I climbed out of bed, careful not to wake him, and tiptoed over to his slumbering form.  
  
Hmm. He looked so peaceful, so... not unbearable when he was asleep. Too bad he delighted in driving me insane when he was awake. Still, I suppose we weren't all that different. We were both intelligent, and definitely not afraid to admit it. We both had inflated egos sometimes, and didn't take well to criticism. We weren't too bad looking, either.  
  
I grinned and shook my head, taking the violin gently from his grasp and placing it on the bedside table. Grabbing the afghan off the bed, I draped it carefully over him, resisting the urge to run my fingers through his jet-black hair. Yikes! Bad girl! Instead, I simply gazed at him for a moment, and turned to leave.  
  
"You should be in bed."  
  
I gasped, nearly tripping over the rug, and turned to see Holmes, *fully* awake, staring at me calmly. I glared at him, fighting off a blush as it threatened to consume my face. "You've been awake this whole time, haven't you?"  
  
Ignoring my question, he stood up and, folding the blanket over the back of the chair, took a step forward to scrutinize me. "You are looking much better. How are you feeling, Crewe?"  
  
"Well, I still feel kind of dizzy, but I'm--" I stopped. "Hey, wait a minute! You didn't answer me! Have you been awake this whole time?"  
  
Holmes nodded indifferently and walked over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked kind of pensive-- When did he not?-- so I decided not to pester him any further for once. "Well, um... I don't think I'm going to be getting any more sleep, so... I'll see you at breakfast, okay?"  
  
In return he said nothing, but I didn't really expect him to. Ah, whatever. I turned to leave, *again*, but once more I was stopped.  
  
"Crewe."  
  
I paused at the door. "Yeah?" What was this guy's problem? Did he *not* want me to leave?  
  
He walked up to me, his keen, blue-grey eyes bathing me in a thoughtful light. "You are... not happy here, are you?"  
  
That took me by complete surprise. "What? What do you mean?" I asked.  
  
"Exactly what I said," he replied in a soft tone. "It is really quite obvious, Crewe. You are unhappy here."  
  
I looked down at the floor, trying to avoid his disturbingly sincere gaze, but that only made him take a step closer to me and lift my chin up with his hand. His eyes... Why did they look so concerned? "Holmes" and "concerned" were two words that just didn't belong together. His head cocked to one side, making him far too cute for his own good, if I do say so myself. "Tell me why," he insisted.  
  
"You have to know everything, don't you?" I said, sighing. "Fine. You really want to know why?" I ticked the reasons off my fingers. "Well, for one, I'm stuck in the nineteenth century and I have no idea how I got here. Two, all my family and friends technically haven't even been born yet. And three, someone is trying to kill me, and I have no idea why!" I bit my lip to fight back tears, which didn't work, by the way, as I angrily held his gaze. "Would *you* be happy in my situation?"  
  
"No," he said quietly. "I admit I would not handle it well."  
  
"Then stop interrogating me already and just let me be miserable!" I snapped, taking the opportunity to leave before I became a complete emotional wreck. Unfortunately, the detective wouldn't let me get away so easily.  
  
Instead of grabbing me by the wrist or shaking my shoulders to get my attention, he simply shook his head, looking at me with those freaking beautiful eyes of his. "Crewe... You know I want the best for you, but I cannot help you if you speak that way."  
  
That was the breaking point for me. Totally giving up on maintaining my dignity, I fell against him, sobbing into his chest. "I'm sorry, Holmes," I cried, ashamed of how weak I sounded. "I'm not mad at you, I just... I just want to go home! I know that makes me sound like a stupid little child, but I miss my family and my friends! I'm sick of not being able to drive a car, or listen to my cd's, or go to the movies with my big sister!" I sniffed. "It's not like I don't appreciate all this, but... God, I feel like such an ungrateful wretch!"  
  
What surprised me even more than I'm sure my breakdown surprised Holmes was the feeling of two arms as they wrapped hesitantly around me, pulling me closer to him. "Hush," he whispered, his soft voice giving me a tight feeling in my chest. "There is no reason to feel guilty. You're certainly not overreacting to what has befallen you."  
  
I closed my eyes as his trembling fingers weaved themselves into my curly hair. "I miss Fenton," I said, pressing my tearstained cheek against his neck. Why? Why did being so close to him feel perfectly rational? Why did being able to feel his racing pulse seem like a common, run-of-the-mill occurrence? Why did being held by *Sherlock Holmes* feel so... right?  
  
He paused at my last statement. "Fenton? You mean, your dog?"  
  
"Yeah," I said, looking up at him and smiling weakly.  
  
He smiled back, reaching up with one hand to wipe my face dry. "Hinc illae lacrimae?"  
  
I laughed bitterly, sniffling again. "Yes, hence these tears. Though I don't think I would cry just because I miss my dog."  
  
Smiling again, he awkwardly brushed an auburn curl out of my face, which made me turn as red as a fire engine. He noticed my blush and released me, letting out an embarrassed "Whoooops."  
  
I gaped at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Why Holmes, I believe I'm rubbing off on you more than you realize!"  
  
Smirking, he put a finger to his mouth. "I would appreciate it if you didn't let this spread."  
  
Suddenly a loud crash sounded from out in the sitting-room. I looked at Holmes with wide eyes, and we both ran down the hallway to see that the front window had been broken, and shards of glass lay all over the floor. I ran to the window to see if the culprit was still there, but Holmes grabbed me and and dropped to the ground, pulling me with him.  
  
"Ow! Jeez, warn me next time, would y--" He clapped his hand over my mouth and shook his head, pointing to the window. My eyes widened, and I fell silent as I saw a silhouette of a handgun pass over one of the walls. The shadow paused for a moment, then lowered out of sight.  
  
After what seemed like hours, Holmes let out a breath. "I believe it is safe now," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Whoever was there has gone."  
  
I sighed and brushed broken glass off the couch before sitting down. "Keyword being 'whoever'," I muttered, resting my chin in my hands. "I still don't get why someone would be trying to kill me."  
  
"What was that dreadful noise?" I turned to see Watson in his dressing-gown. His expression was priceless when he spotted the shattered window. "My God, what happened here?"  
  
"Someone found out the poison didn't have its desired effect," I replied. "They came to remedy the situation."  
  
"No," said Holmes, bending down to pick something up. "This was merely a warning."  
  
He sat down next to me and held out the object he had extracted from the debris. It was a chunk of mortar, with a piece of paper tied to it with packing twine. Slowly, he took off the string and pulled out the paper, unfolding it for us to see.  
  
  
::To Mr. Sherlock Holmes concerning a Ms. Amanda Crewe--  
  
I am fully aware Ms. Crewe is residing with you, posing as one Dr. John Watson's cousin from America. Unless you want to see her harmed, I would suggest you leave London immediately.::  
  
  
After an unbearably long pause, Holmes looked up at me with wide eyes. "It would appear that this murderous intention is not entirely focused on you."  
  
  
  
//Ooooooh, what exciting adventures will Crewe and company get into in the next chapter? Who could possibly be so mad at Holmes that they would try to kill someone he... dare I say, cared about? Why am I only talking in questions? Leave a review, and you'll find out soon!  
  
Oh! Before I forget... I DREW SHERLOCK HOLMES!! *leaps for joy* I also drew Crewe, in case you didn't have a good idea of what she looks like. Check 'em out!  
  
http://www.mediaminer.org/fanart/view.php?id=22940  
http://www.mediaminer.org/fanart/view.php?id=27849  
  
So yeah, have a look-see, and if you're nice, please leave a comment!// 


	7. Si Je Savais

//Yay, you didn't need to wait NEARLY as long for this chapter! ^-^ Thanks everyone, for your reviews, and thank you, LA, for commenting on my art! Oh yeah, before it escapes my mind, allow me to translate some of the chapter titles.  
  
'Hinc Illae Lacrimae' - Hence These Tears  
'Dies Faustus' - Lucky Day  
'Tempus Fugit' - Time Flies  
'Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum' - If You Wish Peace, Prepare for War  
  
Hope that helped!//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 7: Si Je Savais  
  
  
"Now we shall see," said Holmes, motioning for Watson and I to follow him into his room, "if we can find a reason why someone would try to use harming you as a threat to me. If we succeed, we will be able to determine the next course of action." He stepped over pieces of broken glass as he walked down the hall to his door and opened it.  
  
"Okay," I said slowly, casting a glance toward Watson as we followed close behind. "What do you suggest?"  
  
Pulling a gigantic tin box out from under his bed, the detective flashed a dazzling grin that made me wonder why there was no bell-like sound effect to accompany it. "My records, dear lady," he declared with obvious pride. "Keeping an account of most of the cases I have solved, and in some instances, have *not*, makes it quite convenient to put a finger on any enemies I may have made in my career." He lifted a thick bundle of documents out of the box, paused for a moment, then dumped the entire pile carelessly on his desk.  
  
I laughed and sat down the edge of his bed, watching as he thumbed through the documents. Watson took a seat next to me and frowned. "If you needed a reference, Holmes, you could have asked for the accounts of your cases that I have kept over the years."  
  
"Quite all right, old boy," replied Holmes nonchalantly, glancing over another page. "This was much more accessible at the moment, and I am sorry to say, your records are far too colorful for my taste."  
  
As the doctor nursed his bruised ego, I shook my head. "Holmes, I wouldn't be so quick to criticize. Remember, Doc's 'colorful' accounts of all your cases are what are going to make you famous," I said, smirking as he pretended to ignore my last comment.  
  
"Please, Crewe, I am trying to concentrate." Turning another page, he suddenly stopped. "Hullo, what's this?"  
  
I blinked and rose from the bed, sitting on the desk to get a better look. Not very ladylike, especially when the era called for dainty Victorian manners, but hey, Holmes's face when he looked up at me was well worth it.  
  
"And you are doing what, exactly?" he asked, raising a dark eyebrow.  
  
I shrugged, leaning forward to look at the papers. "Seeing what is so interesting. Want to file a complaint?"  
  
He sighed. "You are intolerable."  
  
"Right back at ya, tiger."  
  
"Tiger?"  
  
Watson cleared his throat. "Enough, children," he said, coming around to the other side of the desk to get a better view. "As much as I'm sure you both enjoy this playful banter--" This is where he winked at me... and I envisioned horsewhipping him, "--Holmes appeared as though he had found something of importance."  
  
"And in fact, I have," he stated, pointing a long finger at the page he had stopped on. "Look here: February of last year, a man by the name of Alexander Holder appeared one brisk morning upon our doorstep. Do you remember, Watson?"  
  
"Do I remember, indeed!" he replied, laughing. "I mistook the good gentleman for a madman who had escaped from his family's supervision."  
  
"Quite right," murmured Holmes, looking closely at his documents.  
  
"Wait a minute," I said, frowning. "He was the guy whose son was accused of stealing that, uh... What was it... The beryl coronet, right?"  
  
Holmes nodded. "Precisely so. No doubt you recall, Watson, that the true culprit was a young man by the name of Sir George Burnwell, who succeeded in also stealing the heart of Mr. Holder's niece, Mary. Burnwell and his new wife fled to India, but were eventually discovered, and Burnwell was detained in a local prison, while the lady remained free despite her obvious involvement in the theft. It may interest you to know, however, that he recently escaped. The authorities were quite baffled, and understandably."  
  
"That *is* interesting," said Watson. "Sir George was, after all, reputed to be one of the most dangerous men in England. Is it possible that he might be behind this foul business?"  
  
He nodded absently. "There is a large chance, my friend."  
  
"What a weird coincidence," I said thoughtfully. "My grandmother's maiden name was Burnwell! Small world, huh?"  
  
Holmes looked up at me sharply. "Was it now? How very odd..."  
  
I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
"Tell me, Crewe," he said, straightening to look me in the eye. "From whence is your family descended from?"  
  
Swinging my legs absently, I replied, "Well, my dad's family was mostly Irish, but my mom's grandparents were from right here in England before they migrated to America." I paused. "Wait a minute... My mother told me once that her grandfather had been arrested for jewelry theft and-- Oh my God!"  
  
Of course, I had read Watson's account of "The Beryl Coronet"; it was one of my favorite Holmes stories. I had always thought it pretty funny that the thief's name was identical to that of my great-grandfather's, but that was back when I had believed that the Canon was purely fictional. Now that I was in the nineteenth century, "chilling" in Sherlock Holmes's bedroom, no less, it occurred to me that it might not be just coincidence.  
  
Well, doesn't that beat all?  
  
I became acutely aware that I was staring dumbly out into space, and Watson was waving a hand over my eyes. "Holmes, I believe Miss Crewe has gone into a state of shock."  
  
"With good reason," said Holmes coldly. "It appears as though the direct descendant of Sir George Burnwell is sitting on top of my desk."  
  
Trying to ignore the icy tone of his comment, I shook my head and returned to the realm of the sound-minded. "I always thought it was a coincidence that my great-grandfather had so much in common with a fictional character, but... That was when I assumed he *was* fictional!" I grabbed the detective's hand, and he gave a slight jump. "Holmes! My great-grandfather is trying to kill me!"  
  
He raised an eyebrow with a little smirk. "Oh, the irony."  
  
  
  
Four days passed. The window was repaired, Holmes rarely came out of his room and when he did I couldn't get a word out of him, and I dwelt in the security of 221B Baker Street, avoiding Watson at all costs. Sure, he was a great guy, but I didn't want him cornering me with a chance to discuss my relationship with our roommate. He'd have a field day with that, until I kicked him over the goal post.  
  
On the night of the fourth day, I was ready to run out the front door and wander around London until someone shot me. Hey, anything was better than the silent, uneventful days in the sitting-room and the lonely nights in my own room, listening to the mournful notes of Holmes's violin. I sat slumped in the basket-chair, brooding over why the detective was ignoring me. I had done nothing directly to upset him, the childish little twit. So my ancestor was a criminal. Everyone will admit to the same thing, right?  
  
Finally I decided to talk to Watson. Call it suicide, but I was ready to tell him how I felt about Holmes.  
  
I rose from the chair and walked down the hall to his room, knocking softly on the door. "Doc? Are you decent?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?" came his confused voice.  
  
I sighed. "Can I come in?"  
  
The door opened as an affirmative response, and Watson motioned to an armchair in the corner. I sat down in it, and he leaned against the edge of his desk. "Of what assistance might I be?" he asked.  
  
Taking a deep breath, I said quietly, "I think I'm in love with Holmes."  
  
Watson stood up abruptly and, pouring a glass of water from a carafe on the bedside table, took a slow drink from it. After a while he set it down and looked at me. "I see."  
  
  
  
//I know, I'm evil. I also enjoy rubbing it in! ^-^ The fact is, I didn't know where to stop, and I might have just kept on going if my empty stomach hadn't protested. I'm glad everyone liked my art, and I hope to put some more up soon, so keep looking! My idea for using "The Beryl Coronet" in this fanfic came from absolutely nowhere, but I like that story, so somehow it found its way in. Hope you don't think it's *too* implausible... Then again, my entire story would fall under the category of "implausible". Anyway, leave a review please, or else I'll cry.// 


	8. Audi Alteram Partem

//Yuck, I just got done staining our fence, and now I'm mad, because I just destroyed a shirt I really liked. Meh, oh well. Perhaps I can vent my rage by working on this chapter. So without further ado, here's the next installment for your reading pleasure! Seeing as how I forgot about the disclaimers in a few of the other chapters, here's one to make up for it: I don't own any of the characters in Sir Doyle's stories, I don't own "The Beryl Coronet", and I don't own pretty much everything else in this story.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 8: Audi Alteram Partem  
  
  
"I see. You do. I see. Yes." Watson began pacing back and forth across his room, wringing his hands like he didn't know what to do with them. Good Lord, I knew I shouldn't have told him.  
  
Tiring of his restless pacing, I stuck one foot out in front of his path, causing him to stumble slightly. He glared at me as I asked in a strangely calm voice, "You okay, Doc?"  
  
"I am hardly amused," he said indignantly, regaining his balance.  
  
"Hmm, at least one of us is," I replied, grinning. "Come on, Watson, I know you've been waiting for me to say it. All right, I admit it. I think I'm in love with Holmes."  
  
He frowned under his moustache. "You think so, or you know so?"  
  
"Well, see, that's the thing," I said, sighing. "I'm not sure. I *know* I would be, if it weren't for the fact that he's been purposely avoiding me. I don't know what's wrong with him!"  
  
"My dear lady," he said, patting me on my hand, "I have known Holmes for quite some time, and I am familiar enough with his moods to assure you that he has no personal resentment toward you. To be quite honest..." He trailed off, as if hesitant to continue. Oh well, I guess I would just have to badger him until he told me.  
  
"What?" I asked. "What is it? Tell me! Watsoooon..."  
  
"Enough!" he cried exasperatedly, rising and opening the top drawer of his endtable. He pulled out a small stack of papers and held them out for me to see. The first page read, in neatly written letters,  
  
::The Girl with the Chewing Gum  
A Vignette by Dr. John Watson::  
  
I blinked. "Doc, what--"  
  
"I confess that your arrival in our era left a great impression on me," he said, smiling. "Almost as great as it has left on Holmes. I resolved to write an account of our adventures starting on the day you decided to grace us with your presence."  
  
"You-- you what? Huh?" I threw up my hands in frustration. "Jeez, Watson, don't you know anything about time paradoxes?"  
  
He looked blank.  
  
I shook my head. "You don't get it! If you publish this, it'll change all the other accounts you're going to write after this! And who knows, if I get back to my own time, everyone will know that I'm the same Amanda Crewe that you wrote about over a century ago! How weird is *that* gonna be?"  
  
Sighing, he handed the stack of papers to me, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "All right. I will not publish it. But read what I have written so far, for your sake and Holmes's."  
  
I frowned and turned to the next page, wondering what he could be talking about. I swear, none of these people in the nineteenth century ever got to the point. But I took Watson's advice and began reading.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
It was a cold, foggy evening when a certain young woman by the name of Amanda Crewe fell into the lives of myself and of my friend Sherlock Holmes. A quite exceptional woman she was, with bright violet eyes and short, shining curls of auburn hair that fell lightly against her slender neck. She was dressed in rather peculiar attire, and the first words to come out of her mouth upon our meeting were, "Hey, Watson, what's up?"  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
"Oh, you remembered that?" I asked, laughing.  
  
Watson tried to hide a smile as he rolled his eyes. "Pray keep reading, Miss Crewe."  
  
I did as I was told, laughing at his reactions by everything I said, groaning at his melodramatic rendition of the whole poison fiasco... Finally I came to a passage I didn't recall being a part of. I soon found out why.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
It was on the third night after the poisoning of Miss Crewe that the Jezail bullet in my leg persisted in troubling me. Realizing that I could not possibly sleep, I limped wearily out into the sitting-room, only to find Sherlock Holmes in his dressing-gown, busy with his chemicals.  
  
"Restless, Watson?" asked he, smiling amiably.  
  
I raised my eyebrows. "It would appear I am not alone."  
  
"Actually, I was about to retire," he said as he sat down in his armchair. He gestured to his old clay pipe on the fireplace mantle and smiled. "Though not without treating myself for my night's work."  
  
I sat down on the sofa, examining my companion. "Miss Crewe would most certainly, as she would say, 'get on your case' about your smoking habits if she saw you," I remarked, amused at his expression.  
  
"I suppose she would," he replied, shrugging indifferently. "Crewe has been known to make her beliefs and opinions perfectly clear. However, I have never lowered my standards as to let others' opinions affect me, as you well know, Watson."  
  
"Miss Crewe has seemed to affect you a great deal," I observed. As Holmes's expression grew guarded, I sighed, shaking my head at him. "Why have you ceased speaking to the poor girl? You know very well that her heritage is hardly her fault."  
  
My friend rose from his chair and leaned heavily against the mantle like a man who has a weight upon his heart. "I really could not explain, Watson," he said quietly, gazing into the fire. "I am not angry with Crewe in the least. Quite the contrary, in truth. The fact is, I am beginning to wonder if my remaining in London is worth the danger to her."  
  
"My dear Holmes!" I exclaimed in shock. "Surely you are not considering giving in to Burnwell's threats!"  
  
For a moment he gave no reply. Finally he shook his head slowly. "No, I suppose not," he murmured. "It must be those thoughts that persist in entering my mind from the second I met Crewe. There is something about that maddening, impossible, dear, enchanting woman that has me bewitched, like a cobra that has been charmed by the music of an Indian pipe. Yet I cannot let this personal defect alter our relationship, and that, Watson, is why I am hesitant to speak to her."  
  
At first I could scarcely find my voice. The thought of Sherlock Holmes in a dilemma over a woman was almost too much to bear. For as long as I had known the man, he had shown a sort of immunity toward an attractive lady. And yet now I could not help but reaffirm my belief that Miss Crewe had had a dramatic effect on him, and he was presently calling his tender feelings a "personal defect".  
  
"Holmes, my dear fellow," said I, "could it be that these new emotions might not be a result of a character flaw on your part? Perhaps it is love that has drawn you to Miss Crewe, and not bewitchment."  
  
At this his pale face grew flush. "Pshaw! I never have heard anything so foolish!" he exclaimed hotly. "Love! What time have I for *love*?" With that he stalked out of the room.  
  
I might have dismissed this uncharacteristic outburst, had it not been for the fact that Holmes had left his pipe untouched on the mantle.  
  
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
My eyes as big as craters, I looked up from the page at Watson, who nodded solemnly. "That took place only last night," he said quietly, taking the papers from my shaking hand.  
  
Okay. I could deal with this. No biggie. *So Holmes might have feelings for me,* I thought as calmly as I could. *That doesn't change the fact that he's arrogant, self-centered, intelligent, perfect-- NO! Can't start thinking like that. Loving him would just be against my better judgement... But I want to love him. And I want him to love me. If things were simpler, I could just walk right up to him and tell him.*  
  
I stood up. "So what's stopping me?" I asked aloud.  
  
Watson looked up at me, bewildered. "Are you quite all right, Miss Crewe?"  
  
Without responding, I threw open the door and marched right up to my other roommate's door, knocking on it loudly. "Holmes? I need to talk to you."  
  
No answer.  
  
"Holmes, please, this is really important!" I scowled, noticing Watson as he caught up to me. Fine, if Holmes wanted a midnight wakeup call, I'd be more than happy to give it. "I'm coming in!"  
  
I turned the doorknob, and as I swung the door open, I gasped to find an empty room... and an open window.  
  
  
  
//I am on a ROLL!! *laughs nervously* Sorry, just excited. Boy this chapter was fun to write! And much longer than the others, but I'm sure you don't mind. It's really kind of a challenge writing as Watson. He talks all sophistimacated and junk. =P Anyway, leave a review in the little box, and pray that I get another chapter out soon!// 


	9. ¿Qué Si?

//Sorry for leaving you at such a cliffhanger-y part in the story! *sigh* I apologize... Yes, you're right, I'm evil... Sure, throw stuff at me if you want. Anyway, here's the next chapter to make up for it. As always, I own nothing. The rights to Sherlock Holmes are owned by a genius named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 9: ¿Qué Si?  
  
  
  
  
Oh, of course, Holmes decides to do this to me *now*.  
  
Swearing sharply to try to keep down the tears, I rushed into the detective's room with Watson at my heels. Not caring about the possibility of Burnwell or one of his lackeys blowing my head off, I went to the window and looked out. Holmes was nowhere in sight. I didn't expect him to be anyway.  
  
"My god," whispered Watson, shaking his head in disbelief, "I had never thought he was serious about leaving London. Although he did not sound as if he were joking, I just assumed--"  
  
"Doc, look!" I pointed to a small, folded slip of paper on Holmes's pillow. Well, I guess when a person wants to leave everyone who cares about him in the freakin' dirt, he might as well leave a note. After all, it's tradition, right?  
  
Watson picked the note up and unfolded it, reading it aloud. "'As much as it pains me to leave you both, I am afraid it is the only option. I know it is difficult to accept, Watson, but it is for the best. And Crewe, I am truly sorry. I beg you not to hold this against me, for I do not think I could bear it. I am glad that chance brought us together, if only for a short while, and believe me when I say that I am sincerely yours, Sherlock Holmes.' That stubborn fool! What can he be--"  
  
"Not the best time for insults, Doc," I said, brushing past him and snatching the note from his fingers. He looked at me, badly flustered, as I strode quickly to the closet and pulled on my overcoat.  
  
"Where on earth do you think you're going at this--"  
  
"There's only one place he could be, Watson!" I shouted, trying to get through to him as I yanked open the front door and ran out into the wet street. Oh, rain. As if I didn't have enough problems. Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it.  
  
"I *do* wish you would let me finish my sentences!" called Watson in frustration as raced down the steps after me, still trying to get his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. As I waved my hands frantically to hail a cab, he caught up with me. "Where do you believe Holmes to be?" he asked.  
  
As a hansom pulled to a stop, I climbed inside and moved to the far side while Watson got in after me. "If his intent is to leave London, the fastest way out is by train, right?" I leaned forward and tapped the driver's shoulder, maybe a little hard. "To the train station, and I don't care if you whip that horse half to death(okay, so I did, I like horses), for God's sake *hurry*!"  
  
  
  
"Are you absolutely sure it's him?" the doctor whispered. We stood together outside one of the rooms in the last car of the midnight train to Belgium, talking in hushed voices. As the train began to move, Watson sighed. "If it's not, we are in for quite a long ride, and in vain."  
  
I shook my head. "It's him, I know it," I replied, looking through the screened window into the room. The only occupant was a tall, slender man with a black moustache, a grey trenchcoat, and round glasses, reading a newspaper with unmistakable primness on the cushioned bench. Nice disguise, dearest. No, really, I applaud you.  
  
"How in heaven's name can you tell?" asked Watson.  
  
I turned back to him and rolled my eyes. "You may not be able to see through his ingenious disguises, but I can tell." I smiled. "Just by looking in his eyes."  
  
Watson smiled back. "I believe I shall look for a vacant room down the hall. You can catch up with me when you are finished if you wish."  
  
"You're a gem, Watson," I whispered, hugging him tightly. He smiled slightly and winked, mouthing a silent "Good luck" and walked down the hall to a room on the other end of the car.  
  
*Bless you, John Watson,* I thought, taking a deep breath. Opening the door with a soft creak, I stepped into the room and sat down opposite the bespectacled man, smiling politely. Maybe I could put a bigger guilt trip on him if I pretended I didn't know who he was. He smiled slightly back, then looked out the window. Ooh, he was good. Not as good as me, I'm afraid.  
  
Brushing the wrinkles out of my dress, I commented, "Stormy night."  
  
"Quite," he replied, nodding.  
  
"I almost reconsidered going outside, if it hadn't been for the reason I had to come," I said, sighing.  
  
I could tell he was trying to mask his curiosity. "You don't say?" he said, setting his newspaper on the seat beside him. "What made you come?"  
  
Looking down at my feet, I shook my head. "It wasn't a 'what', but a 'who'. Maybe you've heard of Sherlock Holmes?" I cast him an innocent glance.  
  
"I have heard the rumors," he said slowly. "His reputation is an impressive one." Oh, darling, you're a master of disguise *and* modest?  
  
"Well," I said quietly, my fists twisting the fabric of my dress, "I'm a close friend of his. Or at least I thought I was. But now he's gone--" I bit my lip, "and I think it's because of me."  
  
He looked at me with his attentive eyes, not bothering to conceal his concern. Poor Holmes. Why did you think you could fool me? "Pray continue, dear lady. I do not quite understand your statement. Sherlock Holmes left because of you?"  
  
My lowered lip quivered, which made him shift in his seat. I take pleasure in plucking at the ol' heartstrings. "Yes," I said, blinking back convincing tears. "I don't think he knew how much he meant to me, because I never told him. That's why I'm on this train." I could hear my voice breaking. My, I'm a good little actress! "I have to find him again!"  
  
The room's other occupant was clearly uncomfortable, and I suppose I had made him suffer enough. Suddenly I composed myself and drew his letter out of my coat pocket. "The game is up, Holmes," I said smugly, leaning forward to tear off his false moustache.  
  
His mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "How did you know?"  
  
"How did I know?" I repeated angrily, standing up and folding my arms over my chest. "I should be the one asking the questions, you heartless jerk! How could you do that to Watson and to me? Did you even think about how much it would hurt us?"  
  
"Crewe, please," he said, taking off his glasses and standing up in protest.  
  
"Just shut up, okay? Shut up!" I snapped, real tears springing to my eyes. I hated being mad at him, but I had to tell him how much pain he had unnecessarily caused me. "You know, Holmes, you are really something. You think that you have to do things by yourself, that you can't rely on anyone. You always have to be alone." I shook my head fiercely. "But what if you weren't alone? What if you had someone who cared about you, someone who loved having you around, who would do anything for you?" I looked up at him, choking back a sob. "What if you had me?"  
  
Seconds felt like hours as Holmes stared deep into my eyes. Neither of us spoke. It seemed like an eternity passed.  
  
Then without a word, he stepped forward and drew me into his arms, rubbing my back soothingly. "I am so sorry, Crewe," he said softly, his voice muffled by my hair. "I did not want to leave you, but I... I'm not sure what I would do if anything were to happen to you. I would rather be torn from you forever than to see you get hurt."  
  
"But I would rather die than be torn from you forever," I answered, feeling his lean muscles move as he tightened his hold on me.  
  
His lips close to my ear, his low voice sent shivers down my spine. "...Amanda..." Good Lord, he actually *said my name*.  
  
My heart started beating faster, if that was possible. "Yes... Sherlock?"  
  
I felt his fingers slowly sink into my mass of russet curls as he whispered, "I... I l--"  
  
"Truly sorry to interrupt this tender moment, but I am afraid we have business to discuss."  
  
We turned in surprise to see a lean young man with dingy blonde hair smiling cheerfully at us. Holmes narrowed his eyes, pulling me behind him protectively. I might have mistaken the man for my cousin who lived in Chicago... only with a revolver in his hand. "George Burnwell, delighted to see you again, Miss Crewe," he said in a friendly voice. "A pity our last meeting did not have the results I could have hoped for."  
  
  
  
//*dodges rotten fruit and vegetables* I PROMISE, I'll have another chapter up soon. If I have time. *steps to the side as a broken botle is thrown at her* Okay, now THAT was uncalled for! Seriously, you won't have to wait long. As if I had anything better to do than write this story. ^_^;;// 


	10. Chèrement Parti

//*wipes all the vegetable splatter off herself* I'm aware that I deserved that. Well, you'll be happy to know that you've convinced me to hurry up on this chapter. Man, chapter 10 already! And yes, that *was* evil of me to stop Holmes in the middle of his sentence. I was trying to build suspense. I can see that I succeeded! And now, hold onto your hats! The big one! The action-packed chapter you've been wating for!//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 10: Chèrement Parti  
  
  
"Burnwell," said Holmes calmly, one hand still on my arm to keep me behind him. "At last we meet in person. I should have thought it enough to drive me from London. What more do you want?"  
  
Dear ol' great grand-daddy smiled affably, his handgun never straying. "I am afraid your absence is not enough, my good man," he said, shaking his head with what would have looked like regret to anyone else. "You see, my wife has had her dear little heart set on returning to England, and it would quite upset her if she knew I might be arrested again."  
  
"Oh, cry me a river, Burnwell," I shot back venomously. "If your old broad wanted to come back so bad," and yes, I was well aware I was talking about my family, "she would have come back alone. And you know damn well driving Holmes out of London will never keep him from turning you in!"  
  
Burnwell nodded. "Precisely my point, dear lady. Shortly after I threatened that I would kill you if he stayed, I began to think. 'George,' I said to myself, 'Do you really believe Sherlock Holmes, the greatest and most dedicated consulting detective in England, would let you off just because he left the country?' The answer is, of course, no. Which is why, I fear, that I must do away with him altogether."  
  
Me and my biiiig mouth.  
  
"And obviously," he continued, leaning casually against the wall with the gun still aimed at Holmes, "I knew that he would take the train, so I waited at the station until I was certain that he had boarded." He chuckled softly in amusement. "Mr. Holmes, surely you did not think your absurd disguise would deceive me, did you?"  
  
I clutched at Holmes's slim hand desperately, trying to think of something, *anything* to do. His steady gaze at Burnwell showed confidence, but the uncertain squeeze his hand gave me told differently.  
  
Our assailant laughed again. "But I must say, I am truly surprised by this new development," he said. "I knew, of course, you cared deeply for this girl, but to think she followed you in a drastic attempt to stop you from fleeing! I find that extremely amusing!"  
  
He broke into yet another fit of laughter, and Holmes twitched slightly. I knew he was planning something; I could just sense those little hamsters in his brain running their hardest. Maybe he was waiting for Burnwell to laugh again; to knock the gun out of his hand when he was caught off guard. I couldn't be sure. Good Lord, where was Watson?  
  
"Oh, forgive me," my ancestor, and regrettably so, wiped a tear from his eye with his free hand. "I am forgetting why we have all congregated here. Shall we get this over with, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
And let the Great Detective die because I didn't try something daring, poorly planned-out, and stupid? *Never!* "Don't even try it, Burnwell!" I shouted, pushing myself in front of Holmes before either of them knew it. "If you want Holmes dead, then you'll have to fire that bullet pretty hard to get through me!"  
  
"Crewe, you demented girl!" Holmes cried, trying to pull me behind him. "Do you have a death wish?"  
  
"Apparently so," said Burnwell bluntly. "Ms. Crewe, frankly, I had hoped I would not have to kill you. You seemed a sprightly young woman, and it would be a pity to take such a life. But I really cannot have you live and risk exposing me or my deeds." He smiled. "I suppose it might be interesting to observe Mr. Holmes's reaction to your tragic death. Perhaps to break his heart before I put a bullet in it."  
  
"I do hate to disappoint you," said Holmes, his arm flying around my waist, "but that is something you will not have the chance to witness." Suddenly he pulled me against the wall, his other hand reaching up and pulling the emergency cord. The train rocked violently as it began slowing down, and Burnwell reeled, firing his gun into the ceiling. In one smooth, liquid motion, Holmes knocked it out of his hand, sending it into the corner.  
  
"Run!" he shouted, ducking a punch thrown by our angered adversary.  
  
"What!? No way!" I yelled in reply.  
  
He sent a vicious left hook flying into Burnwell's face. "Trust me!"  
  
I screamed in frustration and raced out the door, calling Watson's name. Other passengers had felt the rocking, had heard the shot and were looking out into the hallway with wide eyes. Watson was among them, and he ran toward me and grabbed my arm in confusion. "What the devil is going on?"  
  
"Doc!" I cried, trying to catch my breath. "Do you have your revolver?"  
  
"I, wh, yes, but--"  
  
"Good enough for me, let's go!" I grabbed his hand, shoving my way past the crowd of people and pulling a sputtering Watson behind me. We reached the room the fight had started in, and I gasped. Holmes and Burnwell were gone-- and so was the gun.  
  
I swallowed. "Oh God..."  
  
"Miss Crewe, what exactly is going on?" asked Watson exasperatedly.  
  
I turned to him. "Burnwell followed Holmes onto the train! Driving him out of London wasn't good enough for him, so he decided to kill him anyway!"  
  
"Good heavens!"  
  
"My thoughts exactly, now come on! We have to find them before--" I was interrupted by another gunshot, one that sounded like it had come from outside the train. Watson and I looked at each other for a brief moment, then we both started sprinting for the door at the back of the car. The doctor reached it before me, and he drew his revolver and opened the door slowly.  
  
"It is with a heavy heart," said George Burnwell as he leaned on the railing, his gun trained on us, "that I announce the dreadful and unfortunate departure of London's celebrated Sherlock Holmes."  
  
A black, nauseous feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I became numb to everything around me: to the rumbling of the train, to Burnwell's frigid smile, to the vague impression of tears flowing down my own cheeks. My own great grandfather had killed a legend. And a legend was now the only thing he would ever be, except to myself. To me, he would be my only love, and the last reason for holding on to this bleak existence.  
  
But now there was no reason. Might as well die doing something heroic.  
  
I stepped out onto the platform, now at point blank range of Burnwell's gun. "Kill me."  
  
"Amanda!" Watson seized my arm, but I shook his hand off.  
  
Burnwell's fair eyebrows raised. "Why the sudden change of heart, Ms. Crewe?"  
  
"You've killed the only reason I had for living. There's no point now." My burning gaze never left his dubious one. "So go ahead."  
  
"Poor little girl," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Allow me to ease your suffering." His index finger began to slowly tighten on the trigger.  
  
I saw my chance and jumped at it-- or, I guess I should say, on *him*. It was like watching sports videos in slow motion. Flying at him before he even knew what was going on, I threw my arms around his neck, pushing us both over the rail.  
  
The end. Curtains. My last bow.  
  
Suddenly I felt an arm around my waist, and not Burnwell's. It pulled me up over the railing, and my ancestor scrabbled at me frantically as I released my deathgrip on him, causing him to fall from the train, hitting his head hard against the steel tracks. The train continued speeding away, and Burnwell's body faded from sight.  
  
I looked up at my savior, meeting a pair of quick, intelligent blue-grey eyes. Sherlock Holmes smiled at me and shook his head. "Really, Crewe, I must say I am disappointed in you. I had thought you would have more sense than to throw yourself from a moving locomotive because of me."  
  
In an instant my arms were around him, making sure he was actually there, that I hadn't died and, pardon the expression, gone to heaven. I heard Watson snickering as he stood beside us. I turned to him and glared. "What are you laughing at, Dr. Chuckles? Aren't you glad to see I'm not dead, or for that matter, that Holmes isn't?"  
  
"Of course, of course," he replied, smiling. "I am just wondering how I will be able to keep my pen from recording this incident."  
  
I leaned heavily against Holmes, the gravity of the entire night finally catching up with me. He held me and stroked my hair reassuringly, his eyes fixed on the receding railroad tracks. "He is not dead," he said quietly. "Of that I am quite certain. If he were, you would never have been born, and you would not be here right now." He looked down at me and smiled. "I suppose I have something to be grateful to him for."  
  
  
  
//*waves signs and banners that say "NOT OVER"* You all will be happy to know, this is not the last chapter! It would sure be mean of me to do that to you, when right now you have absolutely no idea how Holmes survived. All in good time, people! In the meantime, please be considerate readers and leave a review. ^_^// 


	11. Ora o Mai

//*devilish smile* Well, my friends, this is the chapter pretty much ALL of you have been waiting forEVER for. And that's all I have to say. Just read.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 11: Ora o Mai  
  
  
I don't think I need to say that when Holmes, Watson, and I went back inside the train, we were the center of attention with the other passengers. But as far as we were concerned, we wanted to stagger into a compartment, lock the door, and crash right there on the floor. No more adventures for us, thank you. Right now sleepy time.  
  
Of course, there was one question I had to have the answer to before my brain ruptured. "How did you survive?" I asked Holmes. "I thought for sure you were dead!"  
  
"I admit I am still in the dark," added Watson.  
  
The detective smiled enigmatically, settling back next to me against the bench. "One thing you should know, my dear friends, is the simple fact that Sherlock Holmes cannot be done in that easily. After I had made certain you were out of immediate danger, Crewe, I struck Sir George hard enough for him to fall to the floor, whereupon I took the opportunity to bend down and seize the gun. When I straightened, however, Burnwell was nowhere to be found. I observed that the door to the back of the car was slightly ajar, so I rushed through it to see Burnwell climbing the stepladder to the roof of the car.  
  
"In an instant I had caught the leg of his trousers in an effort to stop him. He kicked me hard in the neck, as you can see from the discolored area, and climbed over the top and out of sight. I followed him, drawing the gun from my coat pocket, and aimed it at his head. Unfortunately, the train was still jostling about, and I became unsteady. Burnwell took his chance and snatched the gun out my hand. As I lost my balance and fell, he fired once, only barely missing me. I saw this as a chance to make it appear as though I had been shot, and I rolled over the edge of the train, grasping the siderail as I went.  
  
"Satisfied that he had taken care of me, Burnwell climbed back down to the rear platform. It was then that the two of you entered the scene, and Burnwell announced my untimely and highly inaccurate death. It pained me, Crewe, to know this falsehood affected you far more than I anticipated, and as I saw you and Burnwell go over the edge, I swung over onto the platform and grabbed you before any further harm could come to you." He flashed me an irresistible grin. "It seems that in every case in which you have been in any distress, you have always ended up in my arms."  
  
I had listened, amazed, to his account of what had happened, and now I couldn't help but stare at him with adoration and gratitude. He really did live up to the title, 'Great Detective'.  
  
"Holmes," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck, "I'm so glad you're safe."  
  
I heard him breathe in sharply through his teeth. "Gently, my dear, gently!"  
  
"Oh!" I loosened my hold on his bruised neck and smiled sheepishly. "Whoooops. Sorry."  
  
Watson chuckled softly, and I made a sour face at him. But for once, I wasn't irritated with him. In fact, as I rested my head on Holmes's gaunt shoulder and closed my eyes, slowly being rocked to sleep by the train's motions, I wondered how I could have ever survived the nineteenth century without my good friend Dr. Chuckles.  
  
  
  
As soon as we got to the train station in Zeebrugge, we immediately purchased tickets for the very next train back to England. That may sound absolutely insane, but I'll admit it; we missed the foggy streets and perpetual mystery that was jolly old London. Besides, Watson had a deck of cards, so the trip wasn't entirely unbearable.  
  
It seemed like a week had passed until, at long last, we staggered up the stairs and through the door to the place I could finally call home. Gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling, doesn't it? Unfortunately, once Watson and I had a chance to rest, Holmes had unpacked the contents of the suitcase he had brought and was on his way out the door again.  
  
"Holmes!" exclaimed the doctor. "Where on earth could you be going? We have only just arrived!"  
  
He waved a finger at Watson, putting on his hat. "I am surprised at you, my good man, thinking I would desert you two again!" From Watson's bewildered expression, that was probably what he had been thinking. "I am only going out to tie up a few loose threads. I'll be back shortly."  
  
With that he left the room with Watson scratching his head and me in a grouchy mood. It wasn't that I was mad at Holmes... Well, I guess I was. Ever since the whole escapade on the train, he had completely closed himself off again. *Oh, sure,* I thought cynically, folding my arms over my chest, *First he's all, 'Oh, Amanda, I'm sorry, I couldn't let anything happen to you!' Then in a flash he's the cold thinking machine all over again.*  
  
To irritate me further, Mrs. Hudson came up with a telegram for Watson from one of his patients. Apparently he had eaten some bad cabbage or something; I wasn't really listening. The doctor said some parting words and was off before I got the chance to fly off the handle. Shucks.  
  
I sighed and went to my room-slash-study, looking out the window with my back against the shutters. Reaching out and picking a rose from the climbing bush that the landlady had planted, I brought it to my face and examined it. Its petals were a deep, rich crimson, with velvety black edges.  
  
"I never understood why Mrs. Hudson planted those," said a voice from the doorway. I turned around to see Holmes walking up to me. "Watson is the one with the appreciation for such... natural things as those."  
  
I smiled and shook my head. "You've got to admit, it's pretty." At his expression, I grinned. "Yeah, don't deny it!" I looked at it thoughtfully. "It's really strange. We don't *need* to have flowers. They're certainly not necessary for our lives. They're just something extra to brighten them up a little."  
  
Holmes had been looking out the window the whole time. Of course, he hadn't been listening. "Hey, earth to Holmes, come in, Holmes!"  
  
"Hmm? Oh yes, of course." He smiled, taking the rose from my hand and tucking it behind my ear. "There, that improves its beauty very much."  
  
I blushed, feeling like one of those hopelessly-in-love soap opera stars who just didn't know where they stood with Slate or Chip or whatever stupid name the guy had. Still, I guess you couldn't go with a weirder name than Sherlock. Especially if the guy wasn't even blonde.  
  
"Incidentally," he said casually, "I heard tell that Sir George has fled to America with his wife. I highly doubt we will have to endure any more trouble from him." He suddenly looked at me seriously. "Amanda... I believe you were sent to my era for a reason. I am very much mistaken if it was to stop your great-grandfather from changing the course of history. Had you not have been there to distract him, and put yourself in great peril to eliminate his threat, I have no doubt that Burnwell would have succeeded in driving me from England." He took my hand in both of his. "I owe an enormous debt to you, Amanda."  
  
I shook my head. "No, you don't," I insisted. "I only did what what came naturally to me. If I was in any danger, you'd help me, wouldn't you?"  
  
Holmes took a step forward, closing the gap between us. "Without hesitation," he replied softly, his hands still covering mine. I could feel his long, tapered fingers trembling.  
  
Yes, I was in fact aware of how hot my cheeks were, but thank you for noticing. I looked down at the floor to escape his intense gaze. "So umm... Now that I've fulfilled my ultimate destiny in this century," I said, smiling nervously, "what happens now? Do I just go back to my own time? Or do I stay here... with you?"  
  
At that point I had raised my eyes to meet his again, and I was taken slightly aback to see that his were filled with some hidden pain. "I will not deny that I would not bear that loss well. But you belong in your own world, not mine."  
  
"I do miss everyone," I whispered. "But... Sherlock... I don't want to leave you."  
  
He swallowed uneasily, slowly inclining his head toward mine. *Holy crap, is he going to kiss me?* I thought wildly. In movies and books, you always hear about kisses that are so phenomenal, that they're like fireworks going off. But for some reason, I never figured Holmes to be capable of kisses like that. I mean, come on, it was Sherlock Holmes. How passionate could the guy be?  
  
I felt my head tilt up against my will, and our noses brushed together for an instant. Finally Holmes murmured a breathless "God help me" and closed his eyes, pressing his lips to mine.  
  
Ka-blammo.  
  
Ohhh, I take it all back. Bottle rockets and roman candles everywhere. Scattered thoughts. Nothing really coherent. At first the kiss was soft and light, almost tentative, but slowly Holmes's drawn shoulders relaxed, and the kiss intensified as his arms slid around my back. I ran my fingers through his raven hair, and somewhere in the back of my reeling mind, I was vaguely aware that he didn't taste like tobacco. Had he stopped smoking because of me? To this day I still wonder.  
  
I blushed as one of his hands dropped down to my hip, tugging me impatiently closer. Well, well, the real Great Detective comes to the surface? I smiled against his lips, and he pulled away, breathing deeply and looking at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look.  
  
"I love you," he finally said matter-of-factly, bracing himself for my reaction.  
  
I grinned. "Love," I repeated in an austere British accent. "What time have I for *love*?"  
  
He raised a sable eyebrow, then grinned back at me, leaning forward for another kiss.  
  
  
  
//*waves arms frantically* NOT OVER NOT OVER NOT OVER!!! *takes a deep breath* There, they finally kissed. Now you people can get off my back already! *lol* Just kidding. Actually, this chapter almost killed me. I wanted it to be juuust right, and despite my wishes, I think I failed anyway. Oh well, tell me what you thought.  
  
And by the way, that whole bit about Crewe talking about roses had kind of a double meaning. If you read "The Naval Treaty" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, you'll see that Holmes *was* paying attention to Amanda after all. ^_^ Anyway, thought I might bring that up.// 


	12. Amor Vincit Omnia

//Bet you were wondering if I had died or something. But no, the simple truth is that my mom *sniff sniff* got rid of the Internet. Nooooo!! Why me!? Doesn't she know that there are people who expect me to finish this story? Yeesh. Well, anyway, I'm back, with the assistance of my dad's computer, and I'm ready to keep this story moving. Sorry about the wait!  
  
Oh, and, keep a box of tissues handy. Just a warning.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Chapter 12: Amor Vincit Omnia  
  
  
  
When Watson got back-- early, I might add-- it was necessary to explain to him why his patient, Mr. Carrisford, had no recollection of sending a telegram to the good doctor about a bad cabbage. According to Holmes, it would "simply not have done" to have Watson around cramping his style while he confessed his love to me, which he had apparently been planning for quite some time. Who knew?  
  
Thankfully, Dr. Chuckles was not mad. On the contrary; he was ecstatic that one of us had finally worked up the nerve to tell the other. "Wonderful! That's what it is, wonderful!" he exclaimed, pumping Holmes's and my hand with frenzied energy. "I doubted the day I would ever see Sherlock Holmes, the most cold, practical man in London, take a woman for himself; certainly not one whom he parallels so notably! I daresay," he added with a devilish wink at me, "you've managed to, as he says, bewitch him after all."  
  
Holmes patted his friend's shoulder with a somewhat abashed grin. "Good old Watson," he said, turning to me with a little laugh. "You see, now, how much faith he has in my ability to successfully charm a member of the fairer sex. I must say, I am slightly offended."  
  
"Aww, poor dear," I replied with a smirk, patting his cheek reassuringly. "If it's any comfort, you didn't even have to try."  
  
"Why, darling, that *does* offer comfort!" He smiled that relentlessly adorable smile of his. "But if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is being constantly reminded of that ever-present ticking clock."  
  
Watson frowned. "What do you mean?"  
  
"He means," I said, sighing, "that now that I've evidently done whatever it was I was supposed to do in the nineteenth century--"  
  
"Which, of course, was to abolish the threat her great-grandfather posed," Holmes interjected helpfully.  
  
"--yes, thank you; nothing is technically preventing me from returning to my own time. Not that we have any idea how I got here in the first place, but it's only a matter of time before..." I trailed off and bit my lip, unable to say more.  
  
Holmes wrapped a possessive arm around my waist. "What Amanda is making a valiant effort to say," he said solemnly, "is that each moment she spends here could very well be her last."  
  
For a while Watson was silent, the gravity of the entire situation sinking in. It dawned on me that having to part with the kind, gentle doctor would be almost as hard as never seeing Holmes again. Finally he cleared his throat. "Is there not a thing we can do to prolong her stay, then?"  
  
"I must admit, I do not believe so," Holmes whispered, closing his eyes. The grief and uncertainty in his mere voice made my throat tighten unbearably.  
  
"But!" he abruptly continued, and very loudly. Watson and I flinched at the sudden verbal explosion. The detective released me hastily and looked me straight in the eye, his steely gaze unexpectedly determined. "If there is indeed nothing I can do to prevent you from being so savagely taken from me," he announced, greatly emphasizing the word 'savagely', "there is one thing I *can* do to ensure that you will still be with me... even..." He swallowed. "Even after you are gone."  
  
Upon trying to reply, I found that I could not speak.  
  
Holmes took a deep breath and fell onto his knees in front of me, his eyes now undeniably resolute. "Marry me."  
  
Now *that* I was not expecting.  
  
As if from a million miles away, I heard a sharp intake of breath from Watson, along with the gasping words "Lord in heaven". To some extent, I could feel my mouth drop open, my eyes widen, my lungs struggle to take in air. Other than that, the only things I were aware of were those adamant blue-grey eyes and the pinpoint of light that suddenly glinted in Holmes's thin white hand. Time seemed to have halted as my eyes raked over the delicate curves of a dainty gold ring, a petite diamond of an old-fashioned cut set into the center.  
  
I rested a hand involuntarily on my chest, at last recovering my ability to speak. "Sherlock, I... I, I honestly don't know what to say."  
  
Fear dimmed his eyes for an instant. "You don't know what to say? Amanda, I am quite easily the least romantically acquainted man on the face of the earth, but I do know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I love you. And if the amount of days, whether they be one or one million, that we spend together make no difference to the Fates, then I have no other option available to me than to make you mine for as long as I can." He breathed in, a catch sounding in his throat. "But my darling Amanda does not know what to say? If you love me, girl, say *yes*."  
  
The sweet, delusional fool didn't believe he was romantic. Well, you can think what you want, but I, for one, would have to disagree. Was it even a question of what I was going to say?  
  
I smiled and stroked his clean-shaven face, blinking away tears as they threatened to blur the sight of my guardian angel. "Mkay."  
  
"'Mkay'?!" He stood up and grabbed my hand, shaking his head in frustration. "For God's sake, Amanda, you and your Americanisms! Give me a coherent answer!"  
  
"Would it make you feel better if I said 'righto'?" I asked, unable to hold back a laugh. "Yes, Sherlock, my answer is yes!"  
  
His eyes widened perceptibly. "It is? You mean, you will?"  
  
I nodded, grinning uncontrollably.  
  
He let out a high, giddy laugh and kissed me once, then twice, then pulled me into a crushing hug. Then, remembering the ring, he took my hand and gently slipped the elegant band onto my third finger. "I am truly sorry I could not find a more impressive jewel to befit such a woman, but I was a bit pressed for time, you see. My word! Such little hands, such little hands!" he exclaimed in awe, lifting it up to the light shining in through the front window. "Well, I shall protect these hands and the pixie who owns them in every way possible. Watson! Have you nothing to say, man?"  
  
Watson sat on the sofa, his legs splayed on the rug. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes had a sort of disconnected appearance to them. He looked sufficiently dazed. "Someone... Someone call a doctor."  
  
  
  
I truly wish I could tell you that everything turned out fine, that the prince and his princess got married and lived happily every after. I really do. But as much as I still wish for it to this day, I am forced to admit that some things just don't turn out the way we want them to. And if you haven't already guessed what I mean by this, you will as I keep writing.  
  
The very evening following Holmes's proposal, Watson decided to be a chum and leave the Baker Street rooms to us by accepting the invitation by his old friend, Stamford, to visit. Holmes and I sat side by side before the crackling fire, his nose buried in his old book of crime records and my eyes still glued in amazement to the band of polished gold that encircled my finger. It was almost as if I didn't believe it was there, that the events of the day had actually happened.  
  
One look at the detective's-- my fiancé's-- affectionate smile as he draped a languid arm around my shoulders assured me that it was all very real.  
  
"Come," he said suddenly, taking my hand and pulling us both to our feet. "There is a place I have been meaning to take you for some time."  
  
I blinked, slightly perplexed. "All right," I replied as he retrieved my coat from the closet and held it out for me to slip into. "Do you mind if I ask where?"  
  
"Of course I mind, you silly girl!" he blurted out, much to my bewilderment. "Am I not allowed to surprise you once in a while if I so wish?"  
  
I laughed despite myself at Holmes's blunt response. "I suppose not. But, to be fair, you've surprised me plenty in the last twenty-four hours."  
  
After donning his own coat, he smiled apologetically and tapped me lightly on the nose. "Shall we? Oh dear, how careless of me!" he exclaimed, smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm. "I have forgotten something important. Wait right here, darling." Before I got a chance to respond, he rushed out of the room, returning after a moment with his violin case. "*Now* we may go," he said, linking his arm through mine.  
  
Following a short cab ride through the wet, cobbled streets of the city, we finally came to a halt outside a tall, Gothic-style building with yellow-glass windows. Holmes climbed out of the hansom first and, after helping me out like the perfect gentleman he was(most of the time), escorted me up the steps to the front doors. A sign on the face of the building read in brass letters, 'LONDON CITY LIBRARY'.  
  
I turned to Holmes. "This is where you wanted to bring me?" I asked, puzzled.  
  
He nodded. "Unless you have forgotten, which I sincerely hope you have not, this is the exact location where we first met." He smiled and added, "Of course, we were on much different terms then, as you'll recall."  
  
"I remember," I answered, smiling back.  
  
He pushed the door open and ushered me through, leading me through the vast halls and dusty shelves until at last we reached the very window where I first found the famous detective, his bow flying expertly over the strings of his Stradivarius. Without a word, Holmes guided me to the wide sill, motioning for me to take a seat. I obeyed, watching as he sat next to me and pulled his violin out of its case.  
  
I couldn't help but smile automatically. The dim lights of the lamps reflected dully off the surface of the instrument as Holmes propped it on his shoulder, raising the bow with much ceremony. "I wrote this piece before I left to catch the train," he said gravely. "Forgive me if it sounds a bit doleful to your ears. The prospect of being unable ever to see you again was rightly distressing." He grinned unexpectedly. "Though not so distressing as I would find confirming the jeweler's inference that I was indeed looking for a woman's ring would be."  
  
I laughed, imagining what it must have been like for him. *Sherlock Holmes shopping for a wedding ring?* I thought. *Yes, that idea might be somewhat hard to believe.*  
  
Instantly I fell silent, however, as the first heartbreaking strains of Holmes's newly composed piece filled the air. I sat, a little stunned, taking in the melancholy notes. It was almost as if the violin was not a mere musical instrument, but some piteous creature, wailing mournfully at the loss of its mate. Unsettled by Holmes's uncanny ability to express his feelings through his music, I shifted in the windowsill and leaned my back against his legs, which were drawn up to his chest. Somehow I knew, despite my urge to give him a comforting hug to assure him I was there, that it was important to him for me to hear this.  
  
After a while, though, my eyelids began to grow heavy, listening to the gloomy music. Regrettably too drowsy to pay attention, I snuggled further against my fiancé's legs and drifted off.  
  
  
  
"Miss?"  
  
Mah. Go away.  
  
"Miss, the library is closed," came a brusque female voice with an unexpectedly American accent. "I'm not sure how you managed to escape our notice for this long, but it's time for everyone to clear out."  
  
I opened my eyes slowly and sat up. A middle-aged woman stood before me, tapping her foot impatiently. She was wearing glasses, a yellow blouse, and... jeans? What the hell?  
  
"Wh-- where's Sherlock?" I asked, mostly to myself. I suddenly stood, growing fearful. *Neon lights in the ceiling?* I thought wildly. *A computerized search system? A paper shredder, oh God, this can't be happening.* I looked down at myself, baffled to see the crimson Victorian dress I had been wearing before...  
  
Before I fell asleep.  
  
"No," I whispered, feeling hot tears track down my cheeks. "Oh God, please, no."  
  
"Miss," the librarian said, confused, "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave. This is a library, not a Seven-Eleven."  
  
I spotted my old backpack lying against the legs of a table, and I picked it up numbly, throwing it over my shoulder. As I staggered out of the building, sobbing quietly, the light from a flickering streetlamp reflected off the elegant diamond ring I still wore on my finger. I looked at it with confusion and despair, wishing with everything I had that I could have at least said goodbye.  
  
  
  
Dimly, I was aware that the phone was ringing. A phone. I forgot I had one of those. I hauled myself up from the kitchen table and grabbed the phone from the hook.  
  
"Hello?" I croaked in a washed-out voice I barely recognized as my own.  
  
"Manda, where have you been?" my sister's voice shouted on the other end. "I called the university like, a million times, and they said you haven't been coming to your classes! What's up with you?"  
  
"Val," I said wearily, "I just... don't feel up to it. Is that reason enough?"  
  
Valerie snorted. "Ooh, 'don't feel up to it'. Boo-hoo, I can almost hear the violin music in the background. By the way, you sound really weird. And when was the last time you paid your rent?"  
  
"I can honestly say I don't remember."  
  
"Well, you better get cracking on that." She laughed. "Sorry, sissy, just worried about you, is all. Hey, did you hear? I'm moving back into the city!"  
  
"Really," I said, sinking back against the counter, feeling the diamond ring bounce against my neck as it dangled on its chain.  
  
"Yup. I just got sick of all the cutesy little houses and the nuclear family crap. I was looking at the perfectly manicured lawns and the 2.3 children, and I just thought to myself, 'I seriously do not belong here.' Ever get that feeling, Manda?"  
  
I wiped a tear from my feverish cheek. "Every single day."  
  
  
  
  
//Don't cry, friends. It isn't as bad as you may think right now. ...Well, okay, so it is. But there's going to be an epilogue, where I promise things will turn out better. I never leave a story leaving people utterly hopeless, if I can help it. Besides, after Holmes's proposal, which was probably the sweetest thing I've ever written, I couldn't just leave the two of them brokenhearted forever. Don't worry. It'll be all right.  
  
Oh hey! I *finally* drew Amanda and Holmes together! Whee! It's not that great, and I'm not sure how it happened(at least on a conscious level), but Holmes somehow ended up looking kind of like Jude Law. Don't ask me why! Anyway, take a look-see, and maybe review?  
  
http://www.mediaminer.org/fanart/view.php?id=66492  
  
-Wakizashi// 


	13. Epilogue: Should We Meet Again

//Yep, here it is. The epilogue proving to everyone that all is not lost. Even if I hadn't planned on writing this, your outraged comments would have been enough to convince me that I had screwed everybody over. ^_^; So, sorry if I caused you all to weep profusely. To make it up to you, here's the epilogue(and here's a first, the title's in English) to dispel any doubts that I would keep Holmes and Amanda miserable for all eternity.//  
  
Hinc Illae Lacrimae  
Epilogue: Should We Meet Again  
  
  
  
Our paths, they did cross, though I cannot say just why  
We met, we laughed, we held on fast, and then we said goodbye  
And who'll hear the echoes of stories never told  
Let them ring out loud till they unfold  
In my dearest memories  
I see you reaching out to me  
Though you're gone  
I still believe that you can call  
Out my name  
  
--"Melodies of Life", Emiko Shiratori  
  
  
  
"Ms. Crewe! Ms. Crewe, can I have your autograph? Please?"  
  
I turned toward the teenage girl, smothering a smile as she held up a book; a copy of one of the books *I* had written. "And what might your name be?"  
  
"Nicole," she said, unable to keep from grinning with admiration. "I just wanted to say, Ms. Crewe, that I *love* your books. That might seem weird, seeing as how I'm only thirteen, and most of your readers are lot older. Not that that's bad, or that your books are only interesting to adults, but I just think it's cool how you write all old-fashioned or whatever, and your characters are so believable, and I know I'm babbling, but it's just because I don't know what to say, and--"  
  
I laughed and took the book from the girl's nervous fingers. "Well, thank you, Nicole. It's good to know that my books attract all sorts of people, and not just old geezers like me." Although if anyone ever tells me that forty-three is considered old, they'll have to deal with my fist. I wrote a short inscription on the inside cover of the book and handed to back to the teenager.  
  
"'Nicole, keep reading. You'll never know how real an experience it can be until you see for yourself. Amanda.'" The girl's eyes widened. "Thank you so much!"  
  
I smiled and waved to her as she left. I suppose I had gotten used to people recognizing me wherever I went, especially at bookstores. I still felt as if I didn't really belong in America, or anywhere else in this century. I had never married; I couldn't, as long as I had that ring to remind me of the promise I had made. As technology grew more and more advanced, I felt more and more out of sync with the time, and the more I missed the foggy streets of nineteenth-century London. But I had accepted long ago that I would never again be able to walk along the cobbles, I thought with a pang, arm in arm with the world's greatest detective. It had been real. But it was not anymore.  
  
Shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets, I left the bookstore and began my walk back to my house on the cape. I'm not sure why I never left Maine. I had moved to Bar Harbor years ago, yes; but I never had the courage to leave Portland too far behind, unlike my sister, who had resolved to see every state in less than six months. Perhaps it was the fact that the best thing that ever happened to me took place in that library so many years ago, and I just couldn't forget that.  
  
Once I reached my home-- a modest cottage that stood defiant against the coastal winds-- I decided to skirt around the house and head straight for the beach. The chilly breeze was inviting for some reason, and I had to clear my head. Looking at the dark, choppy waves of the Atlantic always had that effect on me.  
  
The closer I got toward the ocean, however, the sooner it became apparent that the beach was beginning to look suspiciously different. I turned around, confused. The way in which I had come, which had once been a smooth decline, was now occupied by a jutting cliff with a narrow path winding down to the bottom. The ground beneath me was not sand, as it had been before, but tiny black pebbles that crunched under my feet.  
  
Was I lost, or was it happening all over again?  
  
It all became clear to me as I heard the sweet, lilting notes of a violin.  
  
"It can't be," I whispered.  
  
I began to walk slowly out toward the white foam of the shoreline when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. There, a short distance down the beach, was a tall, thin man, sitting on a long piece of driftwood. At first I didn't want to admit to myself that it was possible. But as I got closer, I saw a violin balanced under his chin, and he was playing with unbelievable concentration. He was bundled in a dark grey, old-fashioned overcoat and a black cravat, and my heart stopped abruptly as I caught a glimpse a pair of quick, intelligent blue-grey eyes fixed firmly onto the instrument.  
  
Those eyes. That hair, slightly greying at the temples, but for the most part black as a raven's wing. The strong features, as I could see as I grew ever closer, were a bit creased with age and stress, but nonetheless unmistakable. It was him.  
  
"Jules Massenet," I said quietly as I came to a stop behind him. "'Méditation de Thaïs', unless I'm mistaken. You still play as beautifully as ever."  
  
The bow promptly flew from the man's hand, landing on the pebbles with a clatter. He stood slowly, resting the violin carefully on the driftwood, and turned around. Sherlock Holmes looked at me, conflicting emotions in his eyes. First disbelief, then fear, then a flicker of suspicion. Finally he came forward, stepping over the bleached wood, and stopped inches from my face.  
  
"You abandoned me," he said bluntly.  
  
I swallowed a lump in my throat. "Twenty years of separation, and all you can say is 'you abandoned me'? It wasn't my fault. You know that, Sherlock."  
  
Silence followed my statement. Then, almost cautiously, he reached out and ran his cold fingers down my neck, tracing the path of the gold chain until they came to rest on the ring, its jewel bright in the afternoon sun. His eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared again. "I would have thought you had forgotten me," he whispered, smiling weakly.  
  
I fell against him, wrapping my arms around him. "How could I?" I cried, resting my tear-stained cheek on his chest. The familiar, if somewhat unpleasant scent of tocacco drifted from his clothes. "How could I ever forget you? I love you, Sherlock! I've always loved you!"  
  
"Oh, Amanda," came his choked response as his arms pulled me tighter against him. "I tried my best to forget you, I honestly did. I burned all your belongings, I never set foot in your room. I even forbade Watson from ever speaking of you again. Good old Watson, the poor devil missed you so!" He rested his chin on the top of my head. "But it was useless. Every night in my dreams I saw your face, heard your voice. It tortured me to no end."  
  
Suddenly he pulled me away from him, his hands on my shoulders. "Tell me you're really here, Amanda!" he said, his voice pleading. "Tell me that this is not Heaven, and the only way I was allowed to see you again was to fall asleep in death! Please, Amanda!"  
  
Tears blurred my vision, but I could plainly see the desperation in his eyes.  
  
"I'm here," I said softly, stroking his cheek. "And," I added resolutely, "I'm not going anywhere this time."  
  
He exhaled in relief, in inexpressible joy, as he buried his fingers in my hair. He had waited long enough. I leaned forward, standing on my toes, and pressed my lips gently against his. He drew me protectively against him, as if he feared that some unseen force might take me away from him again. Finally he pulled away with a sigh of deep contentment.  
  
"Come along, darling," he said, taking my hand and giving it a quick kiss. "We must inform Watson of your return. I must also introduce to my bees. Fascinating little creatures, very industrious."  
  
As he picked up his violin and bow and led me up the beach, I winced. "There's probably something you should know."  
  
"Mm? What is that?"  
  
"I'm... afraid of bees."  
  
"Are you now? Well, well, I'm quite sure we shall work out some sort of arrangement. 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you', and all that. I suppose, to some extent, the same applies for the insect world as well."  
  
"Sure, why not." I smiled, noticing as he grew unconsciously closer to my side, assuring himself of my current solidity as we continued walking.  
  
"By the way, this may seem an inappropriate question," he said in an off-hand fashion, "but you wouldn't happen to have any gum, would you?"  
  
I laughed and tossed him a stick I had fished out of my coat pocket. "Hope you like cinnamon. By the way, you haven't seen a gangly blonde girl walking around on the downs lately, have you?"  
  
"No," he replied slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"  
  
"Just making sure."  
  
  
  
  
  
//What'd I tell you? Didn't I say everything would be all right... eventually? And yet you didn't believe me. How very odd. Just because I'm not trustworthy and very fond of cliffhangers doesn't mean you should discount my word. Anyway, I hope you liked it. I certainly did. In fact, as of now, this is officially my favorite story out of all that I've written.  
  
Incidentally, if anyone cares, I just got done reading the ENTIRE canon. Although I felt like I had accomplished some great thing, it left me when an empty feeling and the words "now what?" echoing in my mind. So, after much hesitation, I bought 'The Beekeeper's Apprentice', the first of Laurie R. King's Mary Russell series. I practically devoured it. Now, after having read it in two days, I feel sickeningly inadequate in my writing abilities. Holmes is written with such familiarity by the author that it takes great effort to remind yourself that Doyle did not write it. And, despite my every inclination *not* to, I found myself liking Russell immensely. If you haven't read it(which I'm sure you have), do so immediately.  
  
Oh and, just for the record, I hate bees. Traumatic childhood experience and whatnot. So naturally I felt that Holmes had somehow betrayed me by retiring from something that I love: detective work, to pursue his interests in something that I loathe: bees. Traitor! Oh well, I forgave him after reading 'The Adventure of the Lion's Mane', in which he writes the simple sentence, "My house is lonely." For some reason that really got to me, (poor Holmes! *sniff*) and as a forgiving *cough* individual, I figured his solitude was punishment enough. As much as he tried to hide it, he was never happy being a loner.  
  
Heavens, I'm talking about him like he was a real person.... Wasn't he? ^_^;  
  
Anyway, if you have any comments, feel free to leave them. Not that I've come to expect them or anything... Hee? I just hope my faithful readers are happy with how the story turned out. Oh! And I wanted to ask y'all something. Might you welcome some more Holmes fanfiction from me in the future? I just wanted to have everyone's say on the matter, since judging from the baffling amount of reviews I've gotten(who knew I actually had any writing talent?), it would seem unlikely that I might be run out of this area of ff.net on a rail, as it were. Besides, I've grown quite comfy here, and my mind is just burning with new ideas!  
  
Yeah, so uh, get back to me on that. And so ends the world's longest author's note.  
  
-Wakizashi (Sparrow to her stubborn friends)// 


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